


Shot in the Dark

by Benfan



Series: Dangerous Mould [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Suicide, Mind Palace, No Major Characater Death, No Slash, graphic depiction of torture!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 103,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benfan/pseuds/Benfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The revelations about Sherlock's abduction as a boy are troubling John, Mycroft and, most of all, Sherlock. A new case, ciphers on a dead body, brings some distractions - at first sight....</p><p>The rating is up to M for some reasons....</p><p>Now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 

John's world stopped turning and shattered into millions of pieces.

He felt the cold rain on his head, running down his face and the droplets of water soaking his collar. His trousers were all wet and the cold was crawling up his legs, giving him goose-bumps. However, it wasn't just the cold from the rain and the chilly temperature, it was a gruesome cold clutching him, eating him up.

His hands were grazed from the concrete and he was vaguely aware of the burning sensation the wounds caused. He was numb, unable to move. His mouth opened and yet remained silent, the scream wanting to escape from deep inside him stuck in his throat.

Some droplets of rain dripped from his upper lip into his mouth. They didn't taste of water, though. Iron. Blood. There was blood in his mouth. He had apparently hit his head hard on the asphalt.

Everything hurt under the surface of the numbness, a dull pain that became stronger. It was strongest in his leg. He was sure it was broken. He was lying in the pouring rain – injured and broken - but did any of that matter?

John couldn't avert his gaze from Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was lying short distance away from him, the bullet hole in his head clearly visible even in the rain and the dark, a cruel black spot on the pale skin. There was a dark rivulet running from the hole, finally forming a small puddle under Sherlock's head. Raindrops splashed into the dark liquid. Sherlock's arms were extended and his coat was spread under him, giving him the surreal look of a dark angel fallen from the night sky.

He had failed. Failed to save his life. All the times in the past months that he had been able to save his friend's life had been in vain. The thought of it tore him apart. John took a deep breath and eventually screamed from the bottom of his heart and soul before darkness embraced him, the echo of his desperation reverberating in the street.


	2. Hangover

**_Two weeks earlier_ **

Sherlock opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. The pain that shot through his head felt like it was splitting his brain. It slowly eased up to a constant throbbing, but every attempt to open his eyes again resulted in waves of pain and nausea. He realized that he had a hangover. It had just been one glass of whiskey - a double, admittedly - but after the blood loss it had been more than enough to knock him out instantly.

He winced on moving, because all his muscles were tense. The Consulting Detective concluded that he wasn't lying in his bed. He was in a sitting position, so he still had to be in the armchair where he had been the night before and obviously had fallen asleep in. That explained the aches running the length of his entire body. He shifted slightly, still without opening his eyes, and couldn't avoid the groan that escaped his mouth. It sounded somewhat hollow since he was still wearing the breathing mask; however, he could not force his arm to move in the direction of his mouth and get rid of that plastic thing that was disturbing his oversensitive skin. How dull it was to be in need of extra-oxygen; and how ridiculous it was to almost die of a nosebleed!

In the last few weeks John had turned out to be his guardian angel, sort of, since he had been there just in time to save his life more than once. Sherlock had always thought he'd be able to look after himself, but he had been proven wrong lately.

"Morning", he heard John say quite cheerfully.

Sherlock couldn't share his flatmate's cheerfulness as the memories of the incidents of last night washed over him and he felt even more nauseous, hardly being able to suppress the urge to vomit. He felt as if he had been in a surreal dream, and in fact, remembering the details, he would rather it _had_ been a nightmare instead of his own personal and miserable experience. He still didn't know any details, but the emotions that were accompanying his brother's revelations were hurting him, causing him pain, making him insecure, making him everything that he despised so much in other people and even more in himself: they were making him weak.

He had embraced the dullness that the intoxication had brought with it. It had come much faster than he had expected. Sherlock distantly remembered the things he had said to John. On the one hand he felt embarrassed, but on the other hand, John was his only true friend; and since John insisted on the fact that saying nice things was something he should practice anyway, he probably didn't have to worry about it too much.

Sherlock was lost in thought when again he heard John's voice.

"You ok, mate? I'm just asking, because I know what you look like when you're miserable, but today you look… shit. Sorry, but I can't think of any suitable euphemism right now."

 _Yes, John, thank you_ , Sherlock thought, _so I look exactly how I feel_.

However, what he was capable of saying when John removed the breathing aid from his face was a mere "Headache". And even that was more whimper than word. Upon saying that, Sherlock felt bile coming up his gullet and he swallowed hard.

"I have a bucket here, just in case. It's fine, Sherlock." John said in his particular doctor's voice.

Sherlock simply shook his head. He didn't want to throw up; he was entirely fed up with being sick, injured and vulnerable. On the one hand, he was, of course, grateful that John was at his side, being the only person in the world he really trusted after all, but on the other hand he loathed being dependent on anybody, even on his flatmate.

Until now Sherlock had sat in his armchair barely moving; however, he felt that he had to at least try to open his eyes. He needed to find out if he had to use the bucket after all. So he forced his eyelids open and was overwhelmed by the stinging pain in his eyes and head, although the room was only dimly lit, thanks to a considerate flatmate, apparently. He felt extremely sick for a short time, after which it got much better and Sherlock felt the relief of having won over his body this time. Regaining control - that was a good thing. Blinking his eyes a couple of times he tried to focus on John, which was more difficult than Sherlock had imagined.

John was standing by his side, the bucket still in position, and looking at him with a grin on his face. Sherlock knew exactly why he was so amused – he rarely drank any alcohol, let alone got drunk. In the back of his mind he wondered if he really remembered everything of the night before. And yet, there was something else in John's face, which didn't fit his amusement. He had bags under his eyes, so hadn't slept much or well, and his eyes weren't displaying the cheerfulness that he was performing. He looked worried.

 _He worries too much_ , Sherlock thought, _stupid sentiment_.

Anyway, he didn't want John to look at him this way. He wanted to get rid of all the thoughts and memories that were troubling him and also his flatmate. Most of all, he didn't want to be pitied.

He had to admit that he and John had forced Mycroft into telling them what he knew, but who would have expected such an outcome? Even he hadn't been able to foresee it, to deduce it. And still, there was this nagging little voice inside him, telling him that Mycroft should have told him before, should have given him the details so that everything that had happened wouldn't have if he had been able to recognize the errand boy who had delivered the poisoned petri-dish. So it was, more or less, Mycroft's fault. John would blame him for being unfair, but was there any other conclusion for him to draw?

He needed to know more, everything, to be precise; at least everything that Mycroft knew – and Sherlock was fairly sure that that was almost everything. However, deep inside, he was dreading knowing more. If the emotions alone were so strong, how would he react to graphic descriptions of the abduction that had brought him on the verge of dying? On the other hand, the descriptions would always stay descriptions as the memories belonging to them were deleted. So, logically, there couldn't be an emotional connection. And yet, there was; the definite proof given by his emotional state the night before.

Sherlock's mind was roiling. His reason told him he shouldn't pry this secret out of Mycroft, but his natural curiosity and pride told him that it was his basic right to know about such a major event in his early life. It was _his_ life, after all.

John placed the bucket in Sherlock's lap and left for the kitchen, only to return with a glass of water and a white pill in his hand.

"Aspirin", he stated and held out the hand to Sherlock. "Take it and drink some sips of water. It'll get better then. But drink slowly; otherwise you'll definitely need that bucket." He pointed at Sherlock's lap. The Consulting Detective made a wry face but took the tablet and the water with shaking hands. John supported him when the glass was about to slip from the weak man's hand; and a prolonged blink of Sherlock's eyes, accompanied by inhaling deeply, showed his annoyance about his helplessness.

"You should lie down properly for a while, in your bed, that is. The armchair really isn't the best place for resting. So, up you get. Let me help you." John suggested, although it wasn't actually meant as a suggestion but an order, Sherlock sensed. He had to admit that, in fact, it was the best option right now. So he stood from the armchair and shakily went to his bed, having to pause twice on his way because of waves of nausea and the overwhelming weakness. For Sherlock it felt as if John was carrying most of his weight anyway. He fell heavily on his bed and felt himself drifting off to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

* * *

 

John covered Sherlock with a blanket, as he was currently lying on top of his duvet, and left the room. He would have a cup of tea and watch crap telly and… think.

Mycroft and Sherlock had been very agitated the night before, as had he. The fact that Sherlock, and incidentally also John, had been poisoned with Tabun, a nerve agent, for the revenge of a family who had lost a member in World War II due to gruesome experiments conducted by the Holmes' grandfather, had, quite naturally, led to Sherlock and John investigating on the reasons. Mycroft's behaviour during the incidents of the last weeks had been quite suspicious, so they had probed him until he had agreed to tell Sherlock what he was willing to give away. Surprisingly enough, it had turned out that, in fact, Mycroft was only protecting Sherlock in every possible way and that the danger they had sensed in him wasn't directed at themselves but at those who threatened the younger Holmes. Mycroft had promised that the family couldn't do them any further harm. He had ensured that, if ever again they set a foot on the British Isles, they wouldn't survive it. John knew that he and Sherlock were now under maximum surveillance by the older Holmes' agents, so they should be safe. And still, the simplicity of a nosebleed could be more of a threat than any criminal or avenging angel. Nobody could predict anything like that, but it had shaken John and Mycroft. There had been too many times lately that they had had to fear for Sherlock's life.

While being lost in thought, John had prepared a cup of Lady Grey for himself and sat down with the steaming mug, inhaling the scent of lemon that he liked so much. He was wondering how Sherlock would deal with what he had found out about himself. The fact that he had asked for alcohol the night before had, on the one hand, worried John a bit. However, on the other hand, he had only asked for a glass of Whiskey, not for any cigarettes or even drugs. Well, he wouldn't _ask_ for the drugs anyway, but he didn't attempt to get any– probably due to his current health condition, probably because he wasn't in danger of relapsing. John didn't know, but he would watch Sherlock carefully. He knew that the Consulting Detective wouldn't approve of it, but the ex-army doctor wouldn't be able to avoid watching his friend closely anyway. That's what friends _did_.

John took a couple of sips of tea and had just closed his eyes to shut himself off from the rest of the world for just a second when he heard Sherlock scream. He jumped and spilt some of the still very hot tea over his hand and lap. Cursing, he put the mug down on the coffee table and hurried to his flatmate's bedroom. He didn't pay any attention to privacy and entered the room without knocking.

Sherlock was entangled in the blanket John had covered him with, fighting as if his life depended on it. His face was screwed up and covered in sweat; his eyes were closed, yet moving rapidly under his eyelids - he was having a nightmare. John knew this too well as he had been having nightmares almost every night after his return from Afghanistan. They had only stopped some time after he had moved in with Sherlock and his mind had simply been too occupied with what was happening to him when he was accompanying his flatmate on his chases for criminals. Only very rarely did he now have nightly recalls of the terrible incidents he had witnessed during the war.

John hesitated for a moment, slightly shocked by the sight of Sherlock. Seeing him injured, close to death had made John sensitive; seeing him suffering emotionally touched the ex-army man more than he would have imagined. He stepped over to Sherlock and shook his shoulders in order to wake him.

"Sherlock, wake up! You're having a bad dream, it's all fine. Wake up!"

The sleeping man flinched, suddenly opening his eyes wide and staring at John before he seemed to wake and recognize him. He moaned raggedly, his breath slowly evening out.

John talked to him soothingly. "It was just a nightmare, you're awake now, Sherlock, it was just a dream."

Sherlock shook his head violently, a disbelieving expression on his face. "It wasn't a real nightmare, John", he mumbled, "I didn't see anything. I only _felt_ something!"

"I know exactly what you mean, believe me. You felt… sheer terror, right?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm haunted by emotions – how ridiculous, John!"

"It's not at all that," the ex-army man replied quietly, remembering that there was nothing ridiculous about it, quite on the contrary. "Your emotional impressions are still quite fresh, so I guess dreams like that might go away after some time. If not, Sherlock, you have to talk to a therapist. "

The Consulting Detective snorted contemptuously.

"Therapists! Therapists always try to overcome emotions with other emotions, and if you had considered your suggestion properly, you would know that that doesn't work with me! I've had so many therapists in my life, all forced on me by my oh-so _caring_ family, and not a single one had lasted longer than two sessions, because they were all so PREDICTABLE!"

Despite Sherlock's weakness, he had managed to talk himself into a rage.

John raised his hands defensively. "It was just a well-meant advice, Sherlock, no need to be offended."

"Then just leave me alone, John, will you!?" Sherlock fidgeted with the blanket in an attempt to disentangle himself from it. His flatmate briefly thought about helping him, but decided otherwise and did what Sherlock had asked him. Straightening his shoulders and slowly counting to ten to calm down, John left the room. He wished for Sherlock and himself that the former would not have to suffer from many more nightmares, as it was clear that if he did, his mood would become unbearable; plus, he would be confined to his bed or at least the flat to fully recover from the recent blood loss anyway for some more time and John didn't really feel like playing the part of his verbal punching bag all the time.

John was standing in the living room, indecisively, clenching his fists and opening them again. For the time being he could do nothing but wait, so he finally resumed drinking his now only lukewarm tea and turned on the TV.


	3. Diogenes Club

Sherlock was physically recovering well; however, mentally he was in meltdown. The nightmares kept returning, Sherlock's screams filling the otherwise quiet flat. With every sweat-soaked awakening his mood worsened. He avoided John, refused to talk to any of the visitors dropping by, and, although he was strong enough after a couple of days to get up, he stayed in his room most of the time. John didn't know what he was doing in there, if he was sleeping or reading or anything as he didn't dare to invade his flatmate's privacy any more. He had been thrown out once too often.

When he couldn't stand it anymore, John told Sherlock through the locked door that he would go on a walk for a couple of hours and left the flat. He needed to talk to Mycroft, who hadn't shown up since the night he had filled them in with Sherlock's terrible experiences and his involvement in deleting the memories of them in order to save his brother's life.

John stepped on the pavement, closing the front door behind him with a slam, and inhaled the fresh air. It was a still chilly early spring day **;** the rays of sunshine, however, were already warming his face and brightening his own mood a tad. He hailed a taxi and gave the address of the Diogenes Club, where he would surely find Mycroft.

Upon arriving at his destination, John noticed that he was already expected by an elderly man in a black suit with perfectly shiny shoes and a bow tie fixed at the very stiff and uncomfortable looking collar. He pretty much looked like a butler, but said nothing except "Follow me, Dr Watson". So, Mycroft was already one step ahead of him – as usual.

They walked through some rooms and corridors, all embellished with dark precious wood, full of heavy antique furniture and uncountable amounts of books. The sounds of their steps were muffled by the thick carpets. No other person was to be seen and the one attempt John had made to talk to the "butler" had been dismissed by a curt shake of his head. John felt a bit shabby in his jeans, jumper and parka. The atmosphere in this building was quite intimidating, which fit Mycroft, though. John wondered whether it was possible _not_ to become like Sherlock's brother when you worked in an environment like this. At least you wouldn't wear casual clothing anymore, because it simply wouldn't be an option in such a place.

After seemingly endless corridors, John was shown a room and offered a chair – without speaking of course. John took the seat and looked around in the room. Everything appeared to be heavy and –important. He jumped a little when Mycroft suddenly stood opposite him. Sherlock's brother hadn't made a single sound upon entering the room and John wondered if he had just _appeared_ in front of him.

"So, he's not doing particularly well." It was a statement, not a question. Either Mycroft had been expecting it or he knew.

"No."

"I had warned him."

"Yes, you had, Mycroft; but if you were Sherlock - of all the possible explanations in the world, would you have expected this one? How could he _possibly_ have foreseen this, eh?"

Mycroft had started pacing the room, turning around suddenly and facing John with a grim look on his face.

"You are like children, John, annoying little creatures who keep pestering and don't obey a "no". And then they come running and want to be consoled by their parents because they have burnt their fingers and it _hurts_!"

John was dumbfounded. It seemed as if both the Holmes brothers had suddenly built ramparts of insults in order to deter anyone from talking to them sensibly. He got up from the armchair and turned to leave, although he wasn't sure if he would be able to find his way out of here. There was apparently no use in talking to Mycroft.

"Wait!" the older Holmes said with a low voice, "My apologies."

The doctor turned around with a very surprised look on his face, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Sit down, please." Mycroft pointed to the comfortable armchair John had sat in before. He cautiously slid into the depths of the soft piece of furniture again. Mycroft went to a cabinet, opened it and took out two crystal glasses and a crystal glass bottle with a dark golden liquid in it. Scotch, it seemed. The aristocratic man just held up the glasses briefly, but John understood and nodded. Apparently, in these rooms speaking was reduced to the absolute minimum.

After Mycroft had poured them both a glass and they had taken the first sip of the excellent Scotch quietly, John started a second attempt.

"He's having nightmares. He says they're not pictures but the echo of his fear, just emotions and they are getting stronger and more frequent. I suggested he should see a therapist, but he refused. He doesn't eat, doesn't speak, doesn't talk to _anyone_ , avoids me and stays locked in his room most of the day. He's slipping through my fingers, Mycroft. Tell him what happened and he can relate the emotions to something, as unpleasant as it might be. He's close to a meltdown and I'm not sure what he will do then. Tell him."

Mycroft thoughtfully tossed the drink in his glass, looking at it as if it held the answer.

"I can't." His voice was quiet, without any of his usual disdain or sarcasm.

"Tell him," John insisted, leaning forward in his armchair and glaring at the man opposite him.

Mycroft looked up from his glass and straight into John's eyes. The ex-army man scrutinized the older Holmes. All his superiority had crumpled and there he was again: Mycroft Holmes, a human being, full of emotions, of worries, looking exhausted and despairing. John was convinced that not many people in the world had seen him drop the mask that gave him an untouchable authority. And yet, it was a doubtful privilege.

"I can't, John. I really can't. The memories have been haunting _me_ for years; I could cope with them because they weren't _my_ experiences. Sherlock has almost died once because of them, I won't let him die now. And die he will, if not physically then mentally. - I can't. Do not probe me any further, I beg you."

"He _is_ dying mentally right now! Tell me what to do, Mycroft, because, honestly, I'm at the end of my tether."

Mycroft wiped his face with his hands. "Be yourself, John, and just keep an eye on him."

"Yeah, I know, and if anything happens I'll call you, right? Don't you see that it's not as simple as that? At least you should try to talk to him as his brother. I can't get through to him anymore."

"He will not be pleased to see me."

"Who knows, Mycroft? He might be needing you more than you could probably imagine. You should at least give it a try. You were the one who helped him back then so maybe you are the only one who can help him now. It's at least worth an attempt."

"Well then. I have business to attend to, so I have to excuse myself." All of a sudden Mycroft had put on his shield of indifference again, nodded John a good-bye and left the room. Was he fleeing?

Once again the ex-army man was left speechless. Had that been a "yes" after all? Talking to the Holmes brothers had always been a testing of the interlocutor's patience, but this time John felt that he simply couldn't muster the necessary amount of it to process what had just happened, so he took the likely expensive crystal glass, emptied it and threw it against the wooden wall, causing probably the loudest noise that the house had heard in years. The glass scattered and covered the fine thick carpet with sparkling shards. John nodded militarily, turned around on his heels the same way and almost bumped into the "butler", who didn't say a word, just gestured at him to follow him.

A taxi was already waiting outside. On his way back to Baker Street, John closed his eyes, leaning into the seats of the cab. He was out of his depth, no doubt. He could only try to prevent things from worsening, but he was fairly sure that he couldn't make them any better.

John also wished he could go back to something like a normal life soon. He was tired of being in constant worry and stress. He wanted to go back to working in the practice. He wasn't even sure if Sarah would take him again as he hadn't been to work in weeks. On the phone she kept saying it was fine, but he wasn't sure if, in the likely case that any other doctor willing to do the locum work showed up, she would keep his place. Also, there were some other priorities in life that he should pay more attention to, like probably Sarah herself. He just needed some time off. He had once wished _anything_ would happen to him, but now he wished that for once in weeks _nothing_ would happen to him. Nevertheless, he would never ever let Sherlock down, thus, his "other" life had to wait a little longer.

After the taxi had fought its way through the heavy London traffic and John had realized that he didn't have to pay for it, courtesy of Mycroft, he entered 221B, almost dreading going into their flat in expectancy of either an absent Sherlock, locked in his room, or one who hurled abuse him. However, what he actually found was nothing that he had expected.

"What the _bloody hell_ are you _doing_?!" John shouted hysterically, rushing into the kitchen.


	4. Meltdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very hard chapter to write, because of trying to keep Sherlock in character in a situation like that. He definitel is a bit OOC, but I still hope it's an imaginable situation.   
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos!   
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms, his unkempt dark curls making a strong contrast to his pale skin, and leaning at the base cabinet, a single-use scalpel in his hand, whose blade had already entered the space between the tendons of his wrist. Blood was dripping from the wound.

John snatched the scalpel away from Sherlock, slightly astonished how little resistance the Consulting Detective offered. He yelled at him to overcome his own shock.

" _Have you gone_ completely _insane?_ "

Sherlock didn't reply and didn't move.

Many people didn't know how to slash their wrists effectively, doing it the wrong way, but Sherlock did, and he had been about to do it. Since he had already lost quite a large amount of blood recently,it wouldn't have taken long for him to lose so much blood that the oxygen saturation would have gone fatally low. Bleeding out was a dirty death for those who had to clean up after the dead, but it was pleasant for the dying ones as it didn't hurt. One just fell asleep and never woke up again.

Luckily, Sherlock's cut didn't seem to be too deep, the blood still only dripping from it, not pulsating. John took a clean towel from the drawer and pressed it on the wound. Still Sherlock didn't show any reaction.

"Stay put!" the doctor ordered, although in his current state he wasn't expecting his flatmate to move or run away anyway.

As fast as he could, he fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom and applied a pressure dressing to Sherlock's wrist. It was like patching up a doll, since there wasn't any tension in Sherlock's muscles. His gaze was directed at the treatment of his wrist, however, John doubted that he was actually noticing it. The cut was frightening, but Sherlock's strange behaviour was even more so. He seemed to have fallen into a complete apathy. John hat witnessed this before and for some patients it had been extremely difficult to escape that condition.

"Sherlock, look at me! It's me, John! Can you hear me?"

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock raised his head and looked John in the eyes, then, as slowly as before, he looked back down. The ever-glowing fire in the Consulting Detective's eyes was gone and it struck his friend that a part in Sherlock seemed to have already died.

John slid down on the floor next to Sherlock, sighing deeply. Never would he have thought that the World's only Consulting Detective could attempt suicide, particularly not in the way he had done. Slashing your wrists was a quite unreasonable method - if there was anything reasonable about taking one's life at all - as it took comparatively long. There were methods that were much more reliable and quicker if the actual aim was to die and not to cry for help. Sherlock had usually been a man of reason, so why, for God's sake, did he try _this_? Of course, he had been strongly disturbed by his emotional experiences lately, but why on earth hadn't John noticed that he had been so close to falling apart?! He had expected an emotional meltdown, but he hadn't imagined how it would take place and that it would happen so soon.

"Sherlock, you know what?" John asked, leaning his head back against the cabinet door. He was aware though of the fact that Sherlock wouldn't answer, probably wouldn't even hear him. "You can't do that to friends, you know? I mean, let them – let _me_ – save your life a couple of times, even donate my blood to you, and then sneak away by killing yourself! I don't assume this was just an experiment about how deep you can cut your wrist without bleeding to death, so I think it's really unfair. You don't know how many times I was _that_ close to sending a bullet up my mouth – why, do you reckon, did I keep the gun after having left the army? – but… I wasn't just so selfish as to let others do the cleaning after me and, particularly, I wouldn't have left without any explanation to Harry."

The ex-army doctor let his chin drop on his chest. "Do you know that the bereaved always - and I really mean every single minute of their lives – ask themselves why they hadn't been there in time and why the other one hadn't said anything before?!" He shook his head as if to answer that question himself, then looked at Sherlock, scrutinizing the motionless man next to him.

"You can't just leave me here like that, Sherlock! I might as well take my gun and follow you. Nothing of that, though, would be fair, you know? Not towards Harry, or Mycroft or Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly – man, she would break if she couldn't hover around you in the lab anymore! - Sherlock, you might be having a difficult time, but others suffer, too. I know that you don't really care what others think, but, for once in your life, don't just be selfish! Let us help you, mate! It's nothing to be ashamed of – we all need help occasionally. Even Mycroft. He needs your help right now as much as you need his. Do you understand that?"

John got up from the floor and turned to the kitchen window without actually noticing what was happening outside.

"No, I imagine you don't. But anyway, I've only just returned from him. I went to him because I was worried about you," turning around and facing Sherlock he almost yelled, " – and how right I was! I wouldn't have thought, though, that you'd do _such a bloody stupid thing_! Seriously, Sherlock, someone should punch you to bring you back to your senses – and right now I really feel like that I should be that someone! Damn it, mate! I know that what I'm telling you here is just a shot in the dark, but I really don't know what to do with you. I better go and call Mycroft. He wanted to drop by anyway, but I think I can't wait till then, because I NEED HELP – and so do you, my friend!"

John shook his head in desperation. There was no sign that his flatmate had heard what he had said, nevertheless John felt a bit better. He had been extremely shocked by the sight of Sherlock slashing his wrist and was as much relieved that he hadn't succeeded. The Consulting Detective was still staring at his hands, but his view was empty, his gaze turned inwards.

John wanted to call Mycroft to tell him about what had happened. Maybe that could convince him to tell Sherlock everything to at least try to make it better. It couldn't get any worse anyway. He was afraid, though, that Sherlock would have to be treated in a clinic if he didn't wake from his apathy. The doctor took his mobile from his pocket and left the kitchen, when he heard a whisper.

"Sorry."

John stopped in his movement and turned around. He had just been about to push the dial button, but hesitated now. Sherlock hadn't averted his gaze from his hands, but he was moving the fingers of the hand with the dressing as if to check if they were still obeying him. He seemed to have woken a bit from his mental absence.

"Didn't mean to…"

John's eyebrows shot up. "Didn't mean to… kill yourself? Sherlock?" He snorted disbelievingly. "It's a pretty strange way to not mean it and yet have a scalpel stuck in your wrist. See what I mean?" Having said that, John wished he had bitten his tongue. Sherlock was trying to tell him something, so he should just shut up and listen. He couldn't resist, though, since he was torn between fear, relief and anger, the latter dominating at the moment.

"I... I'm really sorry," John said quietly, rolling his eyes in annoyance about himself. He retrieved a blanket from the sofa, went over to Sherlock and lay it around his shoulders as best as he could. Although he was sure that Sherlock didn't actually feel how chilly it was, sitting bare-chested in a not too warm kitchen definitely couldn't help make him feel better. And he hoped that the pale man was at least a tiny bit susceptible to such comforting gestures. Once again John crouched down at his friend's side.

"So, you didn't mean to…?"

Sherlock pulled his legs to his chin and rested his forehead on his knees, his arms embracing his shins. He looked like a helpless child, trying to hide himself. For a long while he said nothing, and John waited patiently, because he didn't want to spoil it again. After a time that felt endless and the doctor almost having given up hope that his flatmate would speak at all, Sherlock inhaled sharply as if he felt pain and whispered, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought pain might distract me from the emotions; I wanted to feel something other than... and ... cut myself. But when I had the blade in my hand it just… happened to slide into the wrist, I… I didn't even realize it. It didn't even hurt, John. I'm sorry."

"Then just… don't do it again. Next time I might not be in time to save you, Sherlock, if your hands go their own ways with a scalpel or anything else potentially lethal in them, you know? Once too often can be pretty terminal with these things, don't forget that."

Sherlock raised his head and bent it to face his flatmate. "I need to know what had happened."

"I thought so. Talk to Mycroft, Sherlock. I guess, this might convince him of the need to do something, so he might give in."

"Don't tell him about this." Sherlock begged shamefacedly.

John gave a brief laugh of helplessness. "Don't underestimate your brother. I, however, will not tell him anything. You set the terms, Sherlock. – I will run you a hot bath. I don't want you to die of pneumonia after all." John pushed himself up and, pointing his index finger at the dark-haired misery on the floor, said warningly, "And don't you dare drown in the tub!"

 

 


	5. Scrambled Eggs

While Sherlock was in the bath John busied himself with preparing scrambled eggs and coffee, not because he felt the need of having a meal, but rather he needed to do something. Cooking had a soothing effect on John and preparing food for someone else was an expression of the care you provided somebody with, so it helped the cook and the eater. Every now and then he stopped in his work, listening carefully for the sounds from the bathroom, resuming his cooking when he heard an occasional splash that gave proof that the Consulting Detective was moving in the bath, and therefore still alive.

When John had entered the kitchen earlier, seeing Sherlock on the floor with the scalpel in his hand, he had been on the verge of a panic. John felt that death had been hanging over them lately like a sword of Damocles. However, this time, unlike the other times, it would have been self-inflicted, the very belated outcome of cruelties done to a boy. John wondered if, back when Sherlock had been ten and abducted, Mycroft had done the right thing. The doctor asked himself if anybody had the right to intrude on the memories of another person, brother or not, and amend or even delete them. Weren't memories the only property nobody else should ever have access to but the owner himself? If John had been there back then, what would he have done? As a youth? He didn't know. He wouldn't have had the ability or the means to do anything anyway. As a doctor? As such, he was bound to an oath to only act in the patient's best interest, but had the deletion of the memories been an act of best interest or rather of helplessness? If John were to make a decision today he definitely would decide against it, because his code of conduct wouldn't allow such a thing. However, he had to admit that Mycroft probably really hadn't had much of a choice; he had said that Sherlock had been dying.

Either way, John knew one thing for sure: the brothers had to work together to overcome both their traumas for he was convinced that the abduction and what had happened afterwards wasn't only Sherlock's trauma but Mycroft's as well and John would do what he was able to to support them, probably by forcing them to help one another.

After Sherlock had re-emerged from the bath, a little colour had come back to his cheeks; not that they were rosy, but the deathly paleness had subsided at least a bit. John forced him to sit down at the table and have a cup of coffee as well as some scrambled eggs. As usual the thin man didn't eat with much appetite, but at least he did eat without complaint.

John joined Sherlock, not because he was hungry – he was actually far from it, his stomach churning over Sherlock's mental condition -,but because he wanted to serve as a model. He thought about how to open the conversation carefully, in order not to upset Sherlock again and risk a resumption of the behaviour that he had shown the last days, and, therefore, put him in danger of another suicide attempt –whether it had been accidental or not.

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully. "They didn't do it properly."

John stopped bringing the fork to his already open mouth, frowning. "Uhm, what? Who?" He put the fork down on his plate.

Displaying a tiny little bit of his old self, Sherlock gave John an annoyed glance.

"Tobias and Mycroft. They didn't do the deletions properly. Amateurishly, rather."

"Oh, Sherlock!" John leaned back on his chair. "Keep in mind that they didn't have any experience; not with deleting memories from anybody else but themselves, let alone from a child, a dying child! They saved your life and I think you should be a bit more grateful despite what you're going through right now. It had worked for quite a long time, don't forget that. How could they have known that some twenty years later you'd have to deal with it again? Not that I knew anything about mind palaces and intentional saving and deletion of data and whatsoever, but I reckon they did a fabulous job compared to the rest of your family. "

Sherlock stared at the fork in his hand, saying nothing. He suddenly stood from his chair, almost knocking it over and started pacing the room, clutching to the fork in his hand, his silk dark blue dressing gown swirling around him. All of a sudden he stopped at the table and stabbed the cutlery into the rest of the scrambled eggs as if it was a knife skewered into an enemy.

John jumped at the fierce gesture.

"Sherlock, sit down. I can imagine that you want to blame somebody for your … emotional state, but stay fair. If there is anybody to blame, then it's your abductor – or if you want someone from the family, maybe your grandfather. Definitely neither your brother nor his friend Tobias."

The Consulting Detective glared at his flatmate, grabbed the back of his chair, turned it around and let himself fall on it, facing away from John. After no more than just a few seconds, however, he resumed his impatient pacing. John watched him with a frown when he stopped at the window for a while, seeming to look outside, then raising his hands slowly and scrutinizing them, his gaze finally resting on the dressing that was covering the cut in his wrist.

He turned around to John, letting his arms drop.

"What can I do to make it go away?" he asked miserably.

John had been worried by Sherlock's behaviour, fearing he would shut himself off, therefore, he was baffled by the question that sounded like a little child asking his parents to make the monsters in the cupboard disappear. Obviously, what monsters in the closet were for a child, emotions were for Sherlock – something unwanted and scary. John sighed.

"I know this isn't the answer you want to hear, Sherlock, but- I don't know."

"But you're a doctor, John!" the tall man ranted.

"Yes, mate, and you have pointed out to me that you can't be treated like any patient; plus, you mustn't forget that I had to go to one myself, because psychiatrists are trained to deal with traumas in the first place, which I'm not. So what do you expect me to do?"

"You didn't tell your therapist anything, so what use was there in going to a specialist, eh? Go to Mycroft, find out what had happened and then tell me!"

John choked on the sip of coffee that he was just taking. "Not seriously." He put the mug down. "Listen, as much as I want to help you, your brother has made it very clear that he won't tell me anything. The only person who might be able to convince him otherwise is you!"

"He wouldn't want to see me."

" _For goodness sake_! Despite those magnificent brains of yours, you are clots – both of you! I'm quite fed up with you and Mycroft telling me that the respective other doesn't want to talk! This is kindergarten and I'm the one left to grass to the other one, aren't I? Just to make it clear: either you or I will send a text to Mycroft asking him to pay you a visit. And then you talk!"

Sherlock stared at his flatmate with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance for a long time, making John almost feel uncomfortable. It seemed as if the thinking processes in Sherlock's brain were slowed down when it came to contemplating himself and Mycroft. Yet suddenly he came to life, pulled out his mobile, forcefully typed a text into it and with a distinct and exaggerated movement pushed the send-button.

"Satisfied?" he asked mockingly.

"This is not about me, Sherlock. You said you needed to know more, Mycroft refuses to tell me anything, so what other way is there? Remember, he does care about you a lot. The two of you will find a way, I'm sure."

Sherlock's only response was a grunt.

The scrambled eggs on John's plate had gone cold, but as he hadn't been hungry anyway, he didn't mind. He got up from the chair and cleared the table. Sherlock was standing at the window again, watching the bustle outside 221B.

Without the slightest hint of surprise in his voice he remarked: "And there he is."

John, however, hadn't expected Mycroft so soon. The hint of a panicky feeling shot through his stomach. What should he do? Should he stay and listen to all that Mycroft had to say, knowing that he would almost certainly regret the additional knowledge later on? He was convinced that it would be hard to go back to normality with the knowledge of the cruel deeds that had been done to his flatmate and best friend. No, this was between Sherlock and Mycroft and should stay that way. If Sherlock decided otherwise later, so be it, but for the time being it would probably be better to leave the two to themselves, because as much as Sherlock trusted him, Mycroft probably didn't and he didn't want to be an obstacle in the long journey to the truth. He put the dishes in the sink - they would have to wait to be rinsed – and took his jacket from the hook.

"I'd better leave you alone - good luck. And don't get yourselves hurt or killed. Neither by words nor by deeds! Understood?"

Sherlock gave John a wry smile. He was uncomfortable, that was obvious, but he didn't try to make John stay. He hoped that a talk between the Holmes brothers could bring at least some improvement.

The ex-army man went down the stairs. In the hallway he met the older Holmes.

"I'm not going to reveal anything to him," Mycroft said determinedly without greeting John, his appearance reflecting the familiar aloofness.

John stepped in Mycroft's way, angrily pointing a finger at his chest and opening his mouth in preparation of a rant. Only the echo of Sherlock's begging not to tell Mycroft anything prevented him from bursting out that he should bloody rid himself of his pride and ridiculous oath. John was angry that Mycroft had let it get that far, raising all the destructive emotions in Sherlock but then neglecting him and refusing him the necessary support to get rid of them again.

John shook his head in resignation and let his finger drop, but locked eyes with the older Holmes, hissing sharply, "Help your brother, he needs you!" Then he stepped out of his way, passing him with a slight nod of his head. He hoped that the Holmes brothers wouldn't be too stubborn to have a proper and hopefully somehow healing talk. The doctor was aware of the fact that generally in a normal patient, psychiatric rehabilitation would take years, but he didn't know how Sherlock would react, what he would do. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't have any other idea to help the detective out of his misery.

When he closed the door behind him, John realised that Mycroft must have hesitated, because only then did he hear his steps on the stairs.

 

 

 


	6. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't manage to post a chapter yesterday. I hope you had a lovely Sunday anyway :-)  
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Mycroft." Sherlock greeted his brother, although greeting wasn't probably the most suitable expression as it was more a statement, neutral and emotionless. At least it didn't hold any irritability or edginess.

"Sherlock," Mycroft responded to his brother in the same way.

If any stranger had witnessed this they wouldn't have had any clue as to the bonds that were tying these two men. They appeared to be distant acquaintances rather than siblings.

Sherlock was standing with his back to the window. He had felt the urge to lie down on the sofa, but had decided against it as it might have given the impression that he had rested himself on a psychiatrist's couch. Also, the sleeves of his dressing gown covered the gauze bandage on his wrist better when he kept his arms by his side. He had to be careful not to gesticulate too much while talking, which would demand a lot of concentration. Mycroft was almost as good an observer as he was himself, so it would be a tough task to hide the annoying result of his moment of mental derangement from his brother. _Why do I have to, though?_ Sherlock wondered in a very distant part of his subconscious. _Because we can't handle emotions and what comes with them_ , was the bitter answer the back of his brain gave him.

Sherlock watched Mycroft attentively. The man in the ever-flawless three piece suit with the umbrella in his hand was standing seemingly indecisively in the living room, watching his brother quizzically.

"Now, …", he remarked, but let the sentence trail off.

"John forced me to text you." Sherlock explained.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Loyal John, yes. I should have known that it wasn't you in the first place who wanted to talk to me."

"What made you think I wanted to talk?" Sherlock asked, instantly condemning the stupidity of this remark.

Now Mycroft raised both his eyebrows in astonishment.

"The text saying – quote – _Let's talk._ – unquote - was sent from your mobile; and as in most cases the sender of a text is also its author and expresses their wish, I concluded that at least you consented to sending me the text," he explained mockingly.

This talk was as stupid as the idea of talking with Mycroft generally was. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John thinks it might help."

"I know, Sherlock, he paid me a visit earlier today, insisting that I should tell you what had happened during your abduction. I have already informed him that I'm not willing to tell him or you any of the details; and this is no matter of negotiation."

"But I need to know what happened!" Sherlock burst out, immediately regretting laying himself bare.

"There we go, little brother," Mycroft stated, his voice almost sounding satisfied. "It's not only John who wants you to talk with me, is it?"

Sherlock was watching his bare feet with a lot of interest, trying to think of a way out of this awkward situation. Yes, Mycroft was right, but it was so difficult to tell him so. That meant losing a point in a game of superiority that they weren't really aware of playing. If Sherlock had had another option he would have gone for it without hesitation. Everything was better than asking his brother for help. However, this time it seemed that he was completely dependent on him.

"Let's get this over with," he mumbled to himself, then raised his head, looking straight into his brother's expectant face.

"I have nightmares, Mycroft, and I want to get rid of them. They're killing me," he admitted sheepishly, however, the edginess in his voice clearly perceptible. This was giving in, something that he despised so much. He told himself that he didn't have a choice.

"The answer to the question you're surely about to ask is still 'no' and will stay 'no'. Nightmares won't kill you, they just need some time to go away."

Sherlock was glaring at his brother. Neither of them had moved so far.

"Then at least you and Tobias could have done it properly! If you had known your business, you would have deleted the accompanying emotions, too! I'd rather have died than being … _controlled_ …by chemicals in my body that I can't get under control myself!" Sherlock spat in fury, gesticulating wildly without noticing that he was revealing the white fabric around his wrist.

Mycroft made a couple of long, quick strides towards his brother, throwing his umbrella on the floor angrily – something Sherlock had never witnessed before – and gripping his arm so fast and tight that the younger man wasn't able to wrest himself from the grasp. His arm was forced up so that the sleeve slid down and revealed the dressing.

Holding Sherlock's arm firmly, presenting it to both of them like a piece of evidence, Mycroft looked alternatingly between his brother's face and his wrist without saying a word.

Sherlock felt ashamed. This had been the last thing he had wanted to happen. Of course, it was just a dressing around his wrist, the reason for it wasn't immediately obvious, but Mycroft wasn't stupid.

"You did mean literally that they're killing you," he stated quietly without letting go of Sherlock.

The younger man didn't respond, but averted his gaze from his brother. In an attempt not to be forced to look at his wrist, he bent his head and focused his look on the scattered papers on the desk to his right. They couldn't help him out of this, unfortunately.

Very slowly Mycroft loosened his tight grip, but before letting go of the arm completely, he held it a split-second longer than necessary in almost a soft touch. Sherlock wasn't sure if that had just been a misperception; probably he wanted it to be one rather than being shown that his emotionless brother was moved by his weakness.

"I…, it wasn't… it's not…," Sherlock stuttered in order to explain to his brother that he hadn't attempted suicide, that it had just been an accident; but admitting that the emotions were so bad that he had wanted to deaden them by cutting himself wasn't much better than letting Mycroft believe he had tried to kill himself.

Mycroft had turned away from Sherlock, hesitating.

"I didn't have a choice, Sherlock, you must understand that," he said slowly without looking at the younger man, "and I don't have one now."

"Why? What in the world can hinder you from telling me what had happened in my life?! You keep making decisions about _my_ life, _my_ memories! I am grown up, Mycroft, an adult! I can decide myself what's good for me and what isn't! And right now I am very convinced that the best thing for me would be if you told me what had happened during my abduction to be able to delete the emotions alongside the memories myself properly; and afterwards it would be best for me if you left my flat and went to hell!"

On the last word Sherlock turned around determinedly, facing the window, his arms folded in front of his chest. When he glanced down he saw the white bandage making a strong contrast to his dark dressing gown. Although it was just a piece of cloth it was mocking him.

Bloody thing! Sherlock cursed inwardly and forcefully tried to get rid of it by tearing it from his wrist. When the dressing was loose the dark red blood-soaked gauze patch that had covered the wound fell to the floor and droplets of blood welled from the cut in the arm. Sherlock fidgeted with the rest of the bandage and in a swirl-around thrust it at Mycroft.

"Look at this! This is what the nightmares and the emotions do to me! Look at it, Mycroft!" the furious man shouted, holding up his wrist, the inside turned to his brother, the red cut distinctly visible. It wasn't clearly distinguishable, though, if it was fury or desperation that made Sherlock's voice tremble.

The older Holmes sighed deeply, then with heavy movements he slowly turned around. It seemed as if he was carrying a burden that threatened to bury him under its weight.

With a shock Sherlock realized that Mycroft's eyes were glistening with tears. He hadn't expected anything like that and he definitely didn't want to see it. He could cope with the resentment that accompanied each of their encounters, he could cope with Mycroft and him playing their little mean games that were part of their petty feud, he could also cope with Mycroft spying on him, trying to intimidate him or John, with Mycroft being absent entirely, but he wasn't at all prepared for Mycroft crying.

The revelation of his brother's emotions stopped Sherlock short. He didn't have any words, not even a snide remark.

Mycroft's mouth formed a choked "No", which was accompanied by a single tear running from his eye. He quickly averted his face from Sherlock, retrieved his umbrella from the floor and almost fled from the flat.

After Sherlock heard the front door being closed cautiously, he let escape a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding. Thoughts were welling up in his brain and he had difficulties in handling them, ordering them by importance, forgetting the least important. He was simply overwhelmed by thoughts and couldn't concentrate on a single one. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, but he had to do something, otherwise he would go mad before long, of that he was convinced.

 _Text John._ Yes, that was a good idea. _Concentrate on an easy task._

The detective pulled his mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown. Only then did he realize that his hand was already covered in blood, the wound of the cut with the extremely sharp blade of a scalpel not having closed enough to stay dry without the protective dressing. He didn't care. He wiped his hand at his silk dressing gown carelessly and typed a text to John.

_Still alive. SH_

After just an instant, there was the _bing_ of the incoming text alert.

_Really or barely? JW_

What was the expected answer to that question, Sherlock wondered.

_Don't know. SH_

_As much as I usually want to have you admit that you don't know everything, it's not really a good answer to THAT question. JW_

_Did you talk? JW_

_Yes. SH_

_Good. JW_

_No. SH_

_Not good, then. He didn't tell you anything. JW_

_No. SH_

_What did he say? JW_

_No. SH_

_Assuming that the question to the answer NO was if he would tell you everything, I'm sorry. JW_

_Does that help? SH_

_No. You want me to come? JW_

_Bring Chinese take-away. SH_

_YES can be a difficult word, can't it? Two meals a day? Trying to break a record? JW_

_Yes. SH_

_So, fried noodles for you? JW_

_No. And yes, I want you to come. SH_

_On my way. JW_

Sherlock put the mobile back into the pocket. Texting John had calmed him a tiny bit and he had to admit to himself that the company of his flatmate was exactly what he needed now – and he needed someone to put a new dressing on his wrist. The bleeding was annoying and he already regretted having wiped his wrist at the soft silk garment. It would need a very good dry cleaner to get it out.

This was a very unimportant thought, Sherlock realized. So at least, he could think a little straight again. He gave in to what he had wanted to do when Mycroft came and curled up on the sofa, falling asleep right away.


	7. Zombies

Mycroft hurried down the stairs and out of 221B, closing the door behind him cautiously. He didn't want to show how upset he really was, so he tried to refrain from slamming the door. He was glad that right in front of his brother's house he had his black limousine waiting. He opened the door and got into the back of it before his driver could attend to his duty. The latter shrugged, but didn't say anything. It was very rare that Mycroft ignored other people's duties, but when it happened, particularly after a visit to his brother, one did best not to comment on it. His men wouldn't dare anyway.

Mycroft sat in the soft leather seat, pursing his lips and attempting to hold back the tears that were still threatening to fall. He inhaled sharply and with a determined wipe of his hands over his face, banished the emotions that he was irritatingly hardly capable of controlling at the moment.

He didn't care. Caring was not an advantage. He could see people suffer, could even give the order to make people suffer without the blink of an eye. He had once been called the "Iceman" by that Adler-woman and she had been right, he was even a little proud of that reputation. It was always good in his job not to be emotionally vulnerable. As it wasn't just a job like an eight-hour office job but one that took his full attention all through the day, week, month, year and most likely entire life, he always had to be composed and attentive, ready to make the most important decisions. He _had_ to be emotionally cold.

However, Adler had been the only person in the world who had brought him to the edge of crying after his childhood days when he had had to realize that the work of years and years of planning and organizing had been destroyed within seconds because his brother had been driven by a strange fascination he had felt for that woman. He never admitted to that, but it had been obvious that that had been the closest to love Sherlock would ever get. Back then, Mycroft had felt as if somebody had pulled the rug from under his feet – and it had all been his own fault as he had initiated the contact between Irene Adler and Sherlock. Making a mistake that affected entire nations _was_ a reason to shed a tear, nothing else, though, should be one.

This, however, was completely different. Sherlock was, apart from their mother, the only person he really cared for. All the times he had had to help rescue him from whatever he had got himself into, had cut him to the quick, although he would never confess that openly. Apart from their natural inherited aloofness, the Holmes children had been taught quite forcefully, by their father mainly, that caring was a weakness.

He really wanted to help Sherlock this time, but he couldn't. It wasn't just the bloody oath that he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't speak about the events ever again, it was something that his friend Tobias had said to him when they had been about to access Sherlock's mind palace.

_"Never, ever tell him anything. Deleting memories is like hiding bodies in the cellar. They are zombies that must never be released from their incarceration or they will haunt you and kill you."_

Those had been the exact words his friend had used. Mycroft had been about to laugh at the warning of his friend until he had looked him in the eye and had seen that there was nothing funny about it. He had meant it.

Tobias had explained to him that this was all about cutting synaptic connections off, manipulating the flow of the neurotransmitters; it was like learning, just the other way round. The memories, however, were not really deleted, just inaccessible. In the construction of a mind palace the cellar was the place to put those memories that were no longer needed. Access to that space in the mind, however, was very difficult for an outside person as it were, so to say, the foundations of the entire construction. They had only been able to delete the memories, because Tobias had taught Sherlock how to create that mind palace, and, therefore, knew some of the keys to access it. He had been aware of the fact, that their work under such circumstances couldn't be as meticulous as it should have been, but they had had to try since there had been Sherlock's life at stake. As they had known that there might be a little hole in the concrete of the cellar ceiling because of that, they had to be careful with what Sherlock would get to know, because a tiny detail could function as an explosive to the whole ceiling and everything would come back instantly, causing uncontrolled release of neurotransmitters, faulty connections of synapses, which could result in cramps at best and insanity or the loss of vital functions if the worst came to the worst.

Sherlock had been in immediate danger far too often and Mycroft had condemned himself innumerable times that he had given in to telling his brother about his abduction at all. If only John hadn't been so admittedly clever as to make copies of the documents he had obtained from his German friend, which had shown the family coat of arms of the Holmes family and, therefore, revealed the connection between the Tabun poisoning and the Holmes. However, he wouldn't put Sherlock in real danger intentionally by telling him what had happened and possibly trigger a break-down of his mind-palace.

He desperately wanted to help his little brother, thus he had talked to a couple of people about what possibilities they had or which treatment would apply. The answers he had got, however, had been unsatisfying, sometimes rather annoyingly ignorant. Either the supposed specialists hadn't known anything about memorizing techniques and the consequences the deletion of memories might have, or they had suggested very long psychiatric rehabilitation, which was simply impossible to impose on Sherlock. They had tried it numerous times and the outcome had always been far from being successful.

Mycroft had tried to hide his helplessness in front of his brother by behaving just as he usually would, although it had cost him a lot of strength and he had finally laid himself bare as much as Sherlock had. When he had seen the dressing on Sherlock's wrist, he had felt as if his heart had been torn apart. Sherlock had a history of drug abuse and self-harm, but he had never tried to slash his wrists. Mycroft had known instantly that the bandage wasn't covering just the result of a silly accident that had happened during one of Sherlock's experiments. There had been something about Sherlock's posture, something in his eyes that had instantly told him that John had been right about his brother's impending mental meltdown. Although, he hadn't expected to find it had already taken place. Apparently, John had been there just in time. There had been a dressing to only one of Sherlock's wrists, so maybe the ex-army man had found him like that upon returning from the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft had to admit to himself that, although there still was some hostility in their dealings with each other, he and John had been pulling in the same direction. Although he had once doubted John's intentions and the reasons why the ex-army doctor put up with his difficult brother, he was grateful now that the persistent little man was so loyal and a very skilled doctor.

In the backseat of the car that glided through the London streets, the fading daylight being replaced by uncountable street lights and adverts that let the city never get fully dark, Mycroft made a decision: He had to find Tobias. They hadn't been in contact for more than 20 years, but for him, with all the access to any data he needed, it shouldn't be such a big task to find his former friend and seek advice from him. He was a genius himself, although without the sociopathic tendencies Sherlock displayed and he had already been very professional in the field of memory saving strategies at the age of 17. It was likely that he could help them.

The personified British Government took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and raised his chin a bit. He had to compose himself as urgent business was waiting. However, what more urgent business could there be as the life and mental condition of his little brother?


	8. Nightmare

John was standing in the doorway to the living-room, the keys in his open hand after he had tossed and caught them in a somewhat anticipatory gesture, convinced he would find Sherlock pacing restlessly, locked in his room or doing anything that reflected his agitation. Instead the Consulting Detective was sound asleep on the sofa. He was lying on his side, facing the back of the sofa, the injured arm resting on his waist and hip. The doctor noticed that there was no bandage around the wrist anymore and that the part where it laid on the dressing gown was soaked with blood from the wound.

John shrugged off his jacket, hung it up and cautiously placed the keys on the kitchen table, avoiding making a loud noise that could wake his flatmate. He needed some sleep as he had slept very badly the past nights due to his nightmares. John retrieved the first aid kit, took a large patch of gauze from it and gingerly placed it under Sherlock's wrist, carefully lifting his arm just enough to get the cloth under it. Sherlock moved a bit under John's touch, but didn't wake.

They would speak about the talk between Mycroft and Sherlock later.

John didn't have any destination when he had left the flat earlier, so he had been wandering around the area close to Baker Street, mostly lost in thought. This was a difficult situation and John didn't have any idea how to improve it without Mycroft's help. The only thing he could imagine was to distract the Consulting Detective as much as possible to prevent him from allowing his emotions to take control over his brain. And yet, it was risky and might as well just backfire. John had thought of calling Lestrade to ask for some cold cases that could keep Sherlock busy for at least some time, although the doctor was convinced that his flatmate would need some more time to recover from his physical weakness caused by all the trauma Sherlock's body had gone through lately. However, he had to admit to himself that Sherlock's mental condition weakened his body and prevented it from healing entirely.

 _Psychosomatic_ , shot through his mind and he couldn't avoid a humourless chuckle. Sherlock suffering psychosomatically was a contradiction in itself – ridiculous. And yet…

John rested himself in his favourite armchair, resuming reading the book he had started. He hadn't got very far in it, because his thoughts had been wandering off repeatedly. He simply couldn't concentrate on the novel. Still, pretending to read, even if pretending to oneself, was better than simply doing nothing and staring at whatever there was to be stared at. Right now it would be Sherlock, but John felt a little uncomfortable watching his friend just for the sake of looking somewhere. Sherlock was really sensitive when it came to people scrutinizing him- up to a degree that he would probably even wake because he had the feeling somebody was piercing him with looks.

After an attempt to read a couple of lines that in the end were read three times and John still didn't know what they were about, he closed the book and put it aside.

He wondered why Mycroft hadn't obviously told Sherlock anything despite the fact that he knew that his brother needed his help. Could the abduction have been so cruel that a grown man wouldn't want to talk about it? Or was it possible that Mycroft was suffering from the knowledge about it so much that he simply couldn't speak about it? He would have to ask Sherlock when he woke up what impression he had.

Sherlock was moving on the sofa, whimpering quietly. He seemed to be on the verge of yet another nightmare and John thought it to be wise to wake him rather to let him go through another wave of incomprehensible emotions, so he gently shook his flatmate by his shoulder. Sherlock woke with a start, stretching out his free arm suddenly as if defending himself and accidentally punched his well-meaning friend in the face, hitting his nose and forehead hard. John stumbled a step backwards and condemned himself for being so inattentive not to realize that he might put himself in danger of what had just happened by bending over a man having a nightmare.

The waking man turned on his back, opening his eyes and looking wearily at his flatmate. His eyes became wide when he realized that John was covering his nose with his hand but a droplet of blood was soaking through.

"What happened to _you_?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, dothing, Sherlock, dou've dust 'it me."

"What? – Oh…" Realization came to the Consulting Detective. "I do sometimes want to punch you, just for the sake of the return of the unnecessary _second_ punch and putting a headlock on me – remember? - but I'd prefer to be awake when I do it, so that I can enjoy it." he informed his flatmate with the hint of a slightly embarrassed grin.

"Abology accebted." John answered. Sherlock hadn't hit him intentionally and it had been his own fault as well, so he could live with Sherlock's strangely humorous way of saying sorry.

In order to avoid the blood ruining the carpet (it had taken an entire day to remove the large dark spots that Sherlock had left with his nosebleed), John put his head back and headed for the bathroom.

Upon returning to the living-room, a tissue held under his nose, John found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his forehead heavily leaning into his hands, a position that could express a lot: fatigue, sorrow, desperation, thoughtfulness… John was convinced that Sherlock was experiencing all of them.

The doctor positioned himself opposite Sherlock, the coffee-table between them. In a still slightly nasal voice he cautiously tried to question his flatmate.

"So Mycroft wasn't quite talkative, was he?"

Sherlock looked up at John, who was rather taken aback by the look in his eyes. He had noticed it before, right after Sherlock's "slip" with the scalpel: his eyes were somewhat tired –lifeless. Those nightmares were in fact killing Sherlock from the inside.

"No, he wasn't. He might as well have stayed away. It would have been the same result, which is nothing," Sherlock replied, a little annoyance in his voice. "I told you it wouldn't do any good."

"It was worth a try," John remarked, "Any idea why he doesn't want to tell you anything?"

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head, finally taking down his arms, which had still been in the previous position, and stared at his hands.

John had noticed the moment when Sherlock had apparently pondered what he wanted to tell him. So there had been more than his friend was willing to tell him so far. He wouldn't try to push him though, would give him more time to open up.

"You want me to patch you up again? You're ruining your dressing gown entirely – and the sofa – if you keep bleeding on them."

"Does any of that make a difference? Who cares about whether there's a bloody blood spot on my clothing or on the sofa? Do you? You've seen so much blood that this tiny little bit won't upset you. Nothing matters!" Sherlock burst out.

John turned around wordlessly and left the room, only to return with the first aid kit after just an instant. With determined exaggeration he put it on the coffee-table in front of Sherlock, sat down next to him and, in a way that wouldn't allow any protest, put a new dressing on his flatmate's wrist.

"You matter, Sherlock," the doctor said quietly while pretending to concentrate on bandaging up the arm, although his skilled movements gave proof that he had done it innumerable times before and his hands were doing their work quite automatically. He felt the slightest movement of Sherlock's arm as if he wanted to free himself from John's grip, but obviously decided otherwise and left it where it was. He didn't say anything, though.

When John was finished, he stood from the sofa, grabbed the first aid kit and without looking at Sherlock's face ordered, "Get dressed. We're going for a walk."

Only now did Sherlock look at him. "Are we?"

"You need some fresh air and so do I, so get dressed."

"You've only just _returned_ from a walk!" Sherlock complained.

"Anyway, the air in here is stale as anything. Get dressed." With that he left for the bathroom to return the first aid kit, stomped to his armchair and flopped into it. "I'm waiting," he remarked impatiently.

He had to drag Sherlock out of the flat, no matter what. The Consulting Detective had to see something other than their four walls. While Sherlock was putting on his clothes, John texted Lestrade and asked if they could drop by to pick up some cold cases. There had to be some as Sherlock had been "out of action" for some time now. Maybe the Detective Inspector could find something interesting or even challenging for Sherlock to distract him.

After only a couple of minutes Sherlock returned fully dressed but with a grim look on his face. John hadn't expected such quick obedience from his flatmate and was rather pleased by it until Sherlock spoke.

"Walking around the city aimlessly is dull. We could just open the window and let some fresh air in."

"Who said anything about 'aimlessly'?"

"You said. You said 'going for a walk'. A walk is defined as a journey for pleasure without a distinct destination, so going for a walk is aimless and, therefore, boring, useless."

"As if we had never gone for a walk before! Now stop it and get your coat!"

John pushed himself from the armchair and in a long stride was at Sherlock's side, quite shoving him to the door, grabbing his coat and scarf and insistently putting them in his friend's arm. The tall man shrugged the woolen garment on, muttering, and listlessly following John down the stairs and out.

The grey London sky greeted them with a light drizzle. John raised his shoulders to his ears in discomfort, but didn't say anything. He was determined to spend at least a couple of minutes at the outsides before he would hail a taxi, which would take them to New Scotland Yard where DI Lestrade already had a case at the ready for the Consulting Detective. A promising one, he had said. He had wanted to contact Sherlock about it anyway, but was surprised that John had texted him so soon, because he had thought that the convalescence wasn't over.

The doctor hadn't said a word about his plans to Sherlock as he still wasn't fully sure about it and wanted to keep a way out if he saw that after some time of walking his friend would be too exhausted, and therefore, not able to work on a case, which always went along with physical and also mental exhaustion. Sherlock himself hadn't asked for work, which was definitely a matter of concern, because usually the Consulting Detective would react like an addict on withdrawal after just a couple of days, sometimes even a couple of hours without a new case. John _had_ made it very clear, though, that he wouldn't let him work as long as he hadn't fully recovered, but that wasn't normally a reason for Sherlock not to do it anyway. The doctor really hoped that his scheme wasn't a dead end.

Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and hid his hands in his pockets, grumbling and striding out so fast that John could hardly follow.

"You're jogging as if you were on the run, Sherlock. Could you, please, slow down a tad," John demanded slightly out of breath. "When I said 'go for a walk' I didn't mean 'run a marathon'."

Sherlock threw a quick and dark glance at his flatmate that clearly revealed his displeasure about their current activity.

"My legs are longer than yours, therefore my strides also. It's not my fault that your legs are so short."

John just shook his head about the remark, which was quite Sherlock-like and somehow reassuring in the sense that the Consulting Detective had found back into his usual, nonetheless hurting, way to state simple facts.

John suddenly stepped towards the kerb and hailed the taxi that was just passing them by. Sherlock stopped short, turning around to John, his head slightly bent and his eyebrows raised questioningly.

" _You_ wanted to go for a walk, so what's that then?"

"You aren't walking and it's not just because your legs are longer than mine that I can't keep up with you. You behave like a child, Sherlock. I'm just trying to help you, you know? But you have to let me help you! You asked for help, remember? Get in the taxi, I'll explain then," John said, opening the back door of the cab.

They both got into the taxi and John told the cabbie where they wanted to go.

"Thought so," Sherlock remarked with a hint of his usual arrogance.

"Shut up, I don't want to hear your deduction," John replied slightly annoyed, although inwardly he was quite pleased to hear Sherlock say something so normal for him.


	9. New Scotland Yard

Sherlock and John walked down the corridor to Lestrade's office. The officers they met in the hall scrutinized them with unconcealed curiosity. Apparently, it had become known that the Consulting Detective had gone through a lot lately, and even if they hadn't had the full story, Sherlock's frail appearance spoke for itself. John assumed they thought he had been seriously ill or injured, and he dreaded to think what the speculation might be. Sherlock didn't spread his venom as he would normally do in such a situation, but just went straight ahead, the tension that he was experiencing only visible in his tight face muscles. John was relieved that they didn't meet any of the familiar officers like Donovan or Anderson. Sherlock would be quite unpredictable in his reactions to any insult and John didn't want to be the one who had to be blamed for dragging his friend here only to have him run riots.

The taxi ride had been relatively quiet. John had started to explain his plan to Sherlock at one point, who had just dismissed his attempt to be helpful by turning away his head and watching the streets and Hyde Park pass by. John shook his head, pursing his lips subconsciously. Sherlock accepted his help insofar that he didn't refuse to go and see Lestrade, but he didn't say anything about what he thought about taking up work on a case. He wasn't excited or curious as he would normally be at the prospect of a promisingly unsolvable murder. Whatever was going on in the Consulting Detective's mind, he wouldn't share it. He only opened up in tiny bits when he lost control about himself; however, for John those bits spoke volumes.

Upon arriving in front of Lestrade's office, Sherlock didn't waste time in knocking at the door, he just rushed into the room, flopped into one of the leather chairs by the wall of the office, deliberately avoiding those in front of the DI's desk, and frankly asked, "What is it that you and your highly unprofessional lot here can't bring light to yourselves?"

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, who was still standing at the door, having shut it behind him. He shrugged, raising his eyebrows and nodding his greeting to the DI.

"Yeah, hello, Sherlock. Thanks for asking, I'm fine. And you?" the DI replied cynically, ignoring Sherlock's impoliteness regarding their professionalism. As John knew, he was used to it and generally didn't make much fuss. However, John didn't have to have Sherlock's powers of observation to see that Lestrade was slightly taken aback by the Consulting Detective's look. Looking at him now, John could see that Sherlock's face was cold, without any fascination or curiosity. Sherlock was much paler than he usually was, which John had thought was impossible, and thinner. Even the Belstaff coat couldn't hide that he was just bones and skin. John realised suddenly that Lestrade hadn't seen the younger man in a while because he hadn't had a chance to. He knew that Lestrade had tried to pay a couple of visits and had been informed by Mrs Hudson that on the first occasion they had both been in some undisclosed private clinic and that on the second visit, Sherlock hadn't been in a condition to be able to see any visitors. He supposed that he had become used to his friend's altered appearance and hadn't fully realised what the impact would be. He wondered, uneasily, what Lestrade made of the situation.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade for a moment, and John could almost see his mind turning over quickly, working out the implications. He was not used to Sherlock coming to the wrong conclusion, so he was shocked to see the Consulting Detective's pale cheeks flush with sudden anger as he burst out:

"Oh, you KNOW how I am; John has most certainly informed you about every detail of my health condition, so why bother with this palaver?"

"Sherlock!" John admonished his friend. "I haven't told him anything, have just asked for a case, so…"

"What haven't you told me, John?" Lestrade interrupted. "Sherlock?"

"Nothing of importance", Sherlock said hastily. "Now what's this case about that you can't solve?"

Greg and John exchanged quick glances and John nodded slightly.

"Right," the DI commenced, "we found a body two days ago, male, in his thirties. An old lady walking her dog found him in Paddington Street Gardens, Westminster, so just around the corner from your place."

"And…?" Sherlock probed impatiently.

"He was shot. It looks very unprofessional, though, as the calibre is a .22 short."

"What? So either an Olympic athlete has branched out or it's a recreational shooter. Who else would use such ammunition today?" John remarked, surprised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You should update your knowledge on ammunition a bit, John. Even in the Olympic Games they don't use .22 short anymore. Well, shot from short distance then. Look for a sports shot, check the registered weapons and even you'll catch him easily. Why did you get me here for that?"

Sherlock got up from the chair and turned to leave.

"Now that you mention it, Sherlock, we'll check the weapon registrations. Not that it had crossed even our minds before…" Greg replied sarcastically. "There's something else about the body though."

"Which is…?"

"It's been branded. Post mortem. The ammunition hasn't brought us any further; it wasn't bought in Great Britain. The branding looks like a sign or a rune or something."

Greg shoved a couple of photos together on his desk and handed them over to Sherlock, who flicked through them quickly.

"You know who he is?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"No, not so far. He doesn't have a criminal record, nothing obvious."

"Hmm, … homeless," Sherlock mumbled, immersed in thought.

"Why that? I mean, why do you think so?" John questioned his friend.

"Look at the photos!" the Consulting Detective snapped. "He's not a criminal, he's homeless. There are marks on his back, caused by pressure and cold, from sleeping rough. Also, he suffered from poor blood circulation - an untreated heart disease, but not for very long. The beard isn't much more than a stubble, so he's still trying to keep up appearances as much as is possible for him. His clothes are dirty, but not quite ragged. His shoes don't look too worn. So, homeless he is, however not long-term. Cross check shooting clubs, and do DNA tests. I'll tell you who he is by tomorrow morning."

"What about the branding, Sherlock?" John asked. The tall man had already turned to leave, then turned around, making a funny face. "I have no idea. So far. Actually, I have twelve ideas, but it doesn't make sense to talk about them so far. It would just be too much effort to explain to you and eleven out of the twelve explanations would be in vain anyway. I'll tell you tomorrow."

With that he left the office and in his usual disdainful manner, walked down the corridor, leaving John behind.

"I got to rush, call you later, e-mail me the pictures, will you?" John said hastily before hurrying behind Sherlock.

Sherlock had already reached the end of the corridor and hurried down the stairs, John trying to follow him.

"Sherlock! Wait!", he yelled.

Neither did the addressed person stop nor did he react at all. The Consulting Detective just hurried down the stairs and out of the building, his coat flying behind him as if it also had problems in keeping up with its owner. Sherlock stopped at the kerb and raised a hand in order to hail a taxi. It was a mystery how he managed to get a free cab almost instantly and this one was almost about to pull into the London traffic when John reached it, managed to open the door just in time and threw himself on the backseat, grinning defiantly at the surprised driver.

"He doesn't have his money on him," he explained apologetically despite knowing it wasn't true and causing Sherlock to mutter angrily.

"' _Cause_ I do! Even if I didn't, you'd be right behind and could pay the fare then."

"Isn't it ridiculous to pay for two taxis if we have the same destination?"

"Not when I have to think. So shut up if you want to finish this taxi ride in front of 221B and not somewhere on the way to it."

"Tss," was all John could say. He was used to Sherlock's moods, particularly when being on a case, but he hadn't expected his flatmate to be so cold. It was as if he took John's efforts for granted, without probably even noticing that they were efforts. At least if this case absorbed him, he wouldn't have to think about his emotions. And still, it was yet to show if it had been a good idea to get Sherlock back to work.

The rest of the taxi ride went in complete silence. Once the cabbie had made an attempt to start a cheery chat with them, which had resulted in a sheer endless flow of insults from Sherlock and the threat of the driver to get back to where they had come from to sue the Consulting Detective for his insults. Only thanks to John's diplomatic intervention and an extra, astronomically high tip John could have easily paid a second taxi with, were they taken to their destination.

Upon arriving at Baker Street, the ex-army doctor was exhausted and really doubted the suitability of his scheme. He also noticed that Sherlock was exhausted himself, climbing the stairs to their flat more slowly than was normal for him – actually most of the times he took two steps at once and now he only took one at a time. Also, John had secretly watched him pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe he was suffering a headache. John decided to give Sherlock some Paracetamol before it got worse, although he was prepared for the younger man to reject them. If he didn't, it would be proof that he did have a terrible headache.

And so it was. After they had taken off their coat and jacket and Sherlock had flopped onto the sofa, John had got him a glass of water and two pills of paracetamol and his flatmate hadn't even complained or muttered, just said "good" and taken them.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John wanted to know.

"Yes, John, why shouldn't I be?" he snapped back, "I'm just a bit dehydrated, just need some tea and I'll be fine."

It wasn't very likely that that was the case because John took meticulous care of Sherlock staying hydrated, but he didn't want to probe any further.

"I'll get you some tea, rest yourself."

"I don't need rest…," Sherlock mumbled, apparently already on the verge of sleep.

John grinned. "I know, Sherlock, I know." He headed for the kitchen in order to prepare a tea for himself and watch Sherlock sleeping – just to make sure he was ok.

After an hour of Sherlock quietly snoring and John drinking his tea and taking yet another attempt at reading his book, the Consulting Detective started to shift a little on the sofa, slightly moaning, the eyes behind the lids moving rapidly. John had just decided to wake him, albeit this time he would be more careful, when suddenly Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and a long "Ohhh!" escaped his mouth, signalling that he must have had an idea in his sleep, maybe a clue to the case.

"Give me the pictures," he ordered, sitting up on the sofa and stretching out a hand to John.

"I don't have them. You didn't take them with you, neither did I."

"We always have copies of the crime scene and body photos, so why not this time?" Sherlock wanted to know. He was the greatest deductionist on Earth, but the very simple and obvious facts could sometimes just slip through his perception.

"You ran away." John stated drily.

His flatmate gave him a strange look. "You should have waited for them and taken another taxi."

"Ah, shut up, Sherlock," the doctor interrupted his flatmate's rant. Enough was enough.

"Lestrade wanted to send me the pictures anyway. I'll check if he has already and print them out, _okay_?"

Sherlock stood from the sofa and started pacing the room right away. He pointed to the printer that was sitting on top of a pile of books next to the desk in the living-room.

"Then print!"

"Relax, Sherlock, whatever idea it is that you've had in your sleep, talk about it and it won't get lost. I'll print them as soon as I have them." While saying that he opened his laptop and checked his e-mails. He was relieved that Greg had been quick with sending the wanted photos. John connected his laptop to the Wi-Fi printer and double-clicked the print-button. The printer shook itself a couple of times before it made the regular sound of applying ink to the paper. After a short time John took the pictures out of the printer and handed them to Sherlock, who hadn't stopped his pacing.

He flicked through the printouts as if he was looking for a particular photo and suddenly stopped short, dropping all but one picture that he stared at, paralyzed.

"What? Sherlock? What is it?" John asked worriedly, crossing the room in long strides and trying to get a glimpse of the photo. Sherlock's hand sank so that the shorter man could see the picture, which showed the chest of the victim, pale with dark spots on it, the burnt traces of the branding building a revolting contrast to the dead flesh.

"Sherlock, the branding, is that really a rune?" John asked. "I always thought they were more angular."

Sherlock woke from his paralysis. "This is not a rune, John. If you know it already, why do you ask? Look at it! I mean, LOOK at it!"

John did what he was told, but couldn't see anything that would give him a clue as to what the sign was. It showed three curved lines in a row and one horizontal line. All lines reminded John of his Maths lessons; they looked like the integral signs, like the letter s with a stretched middle part. However, the actual curves were slightly angular. The horizontal line was another tilted stretched s that crossed the central vertical line in the middle and connected the outer vertical lines with its ends.

John shrugged his shoulders. "What is it then? I don't see anything."

Sherlock snorted disparagingly and looked at John.

"Same as ever. You're blind."

"Hang on, Sherlock, _you_ had obviously had this idea when you were asleep. So, how could I _possibly_ have recognized anything in it earlier than you? I don't consider myself slow, but I didn't even get a proper chance to _look_ at the photos! Now what is it?"

"This is meant for me. - A warning. Most likely." Sherlock explained as if that was a simple fact and didn't worry him at all. However, his reaction had revealed that he was scared and that in turn sent a shudder down John's spine.


	10. Ciphers

"WHAT?" John yelled, his voice shrill and almost cracking.

Sherlock snorted humourlessly, throwing the photo on the desk and taking a notepad and a biro from it. He held the paper close to his chest while drawing on it.

"It's not one sign. It's three," he mumbled. After a moment he presented his art work to John, who inhaled sharply.

The notepad showed a swastika, formed by the central vertical and the horizontal lines of the mysterious branding; an S, the first vertical line, and an H formed by the central, right and horizontal lines. It stroke John that it _was_ a possible breakdown of the four lines.

"A swastika! Why a bloody swastika?!" John exclaimed, although the answer was already creeping into his conscience. With dawning realization he slowly responded to his own question, looking at his flatmate intently. "A Nazi-symbol – it's a reference to the times when Tabun was invented, you think."

Sherlock just nodded.

"And an S and an H for Sherlock Holmes…." John's sentence trailed off. "Are you sure, Sherlock? I mean, couldn't there be a hundred other possibilities? Couldn't it just be another ancient Chinese figure system, any random cipher?"

"Ciphers on a dead body are never random."

"Ah, you know what I mean! Random in the sense of not meant for you!"

Sherlock put on his this-is-all-so-obvious look and took a deep breath.

"Somebody put the body right around the corner of 221B; he's not _someone_ , nobody knows him, nobody misses him. The murderer didn't kill him because of himself. He just served as a useful body to put a cipher on. The perpetrator is neither a good shot nor a professional criminal going by the ammunition he used. The man was shot from short distance, but from behind. A professional always shoots from the front to make sure he succeeds. This shot, however, was more or less incidentally lethal. He must have lost a lot of blood before he died eventually. The killer had waited until the man was dead; only then did he apply the branding. Cowardice. That and the ammunition used prove that he's an amateur. Why should any amateur put so much effort in a killing, if not to make someone curious? If he had wanted to kill this particular person because he had had a feud with him, he would have done it secretly."

Sherlock had rattled off his deductions in his usual manner, the words fired like machine gun bullets, leaving trails in John's mind that altogether formed one word: Danger!

A little more slowly he added, "There _are_ other possibilities for putting the sign together, but they don't make sense. And this pretty much looks like kind regards from my enemy. People don't have enemies, you think? I have; an inherited enemy, so to say, who can't set foot on British soil, however, without signing their own death sentence, conducted by my dear brother. The ammunition wasn't purchased in Britain, and if we checked world-wide, I am absolutely sure we would find that it was bought where that particular family now live. This is a warning for me, John. However, something of such amateurishness can't be taken seriously!"

As if to conclude his speech Sherlock briefly raised his eyebrows and tilted his head just a little bit, looking provocatively at John, who didn't understand how his flatmate could just dismiss a threat to his life that he had just proven himself, with only a wink.

"Sherlock, that guy _did_ kill a man, so despite all his unprofessionalism, I do consider him dangerous. We have to call Lestrade and Mycroft."

"What for?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

"To protect you. If you are sure that everything is like you've just said…"

"Of course, I am, I wouldn't have said it otherwise!" Sherlock interrupted.

"… yes, so ,… I don't want that bloody recreational and obviously mad shot to succeed!" John finished his sentence, clenching his fists and staring angrily at his flatmate. He wasn't angry, though, he was scared.

"You are a crack shot, you are a thousand times better and faster shot than this amateur, you are trained to watch out for suspicious persons, movements, noises – so, what better person could there be to protect me than you?"

Sherlock gave John a smile that was obviously meant to be charming in a way, but didn't quite reach his eyes and failed its aim completely. Although John would normally have been flattered by the Consulting Detective's words, he was aware of the purpose they served, and therefore, they just bounced off him.

"Well, thanks for the acknowledgement, but you forget that I was trained in Kandahar, not really a place comparable to the streets of London, you know? This madman could be hiding _anywhere_ and I simply wouldn't be able to spot him unless I kept my finger on the trigger and shot everyone who came within lethal shooting distance of a sports gun. I really doubt that that's a good plan, Sherlock."

"You are better than that, John. We can tell Mycroft and Lestrade tomorrow. I just have to do some more research tonight among the homeless network and I'll be able to tell them who is threatening me, or at least who the dead man is."

"I'm not happy with that, but I assume that it doesn't make any difference. I'll take my gun with me and try not to shoot around me wildly, although that might take a lot of effort!" John put on a smile that was meant to hide his rising panic. This was entirely not good. He should probably inform at least Mycroft secretly, just to have some backup if needed.

He hesitated for a brief moment, then mumbling "…bathroom," absentmindedly, he turned around and headed to the aforementioned room, leaving a frowning Sherlock behind.

They didn't usually tell each other when they needed to use the bathroom, and John didn't normally leave what felt right in the middle of a talk, so Sherlock might be suspicious anyway, but John didn't care. He shut the door behind him and dropped heavily on the toilet lid, leaning over and breathing deeply to get his fear under control. He hoped so much that Sherlock was wrong, but he felt that he wasn't. Sherlock pretended to be indifferent, but that wasn't true. His reactions and his eyes proved him otherwise. John turned on the tap and hastily typed a text to Mycroft telling him that Sherlock was in danger and he needed extra surveillance – it felt ridiculous that he was asking for it now although he usually hated the constant feeling of being observed. He added that he would provide the older Holmes with more details the following day and Mycroft wasn't to tell his brother about the text. After all that had happened lately he could be sure that, although most likely they wouldn't notice anything, Mycroft would have his best people placed around 221B.

John put the mobile back into his pocket, splashed some water in his face, quickly wiped his face and hands with the towel and left the bathroom, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't be too suspicious and question him.

Surprisingly enough, the Consulting Detective had already put the kettle on and taken two mugs from the cupboard.

"Tea?" he asked.

John accepted the offer, a little surprised that Sherlock didn't want him to prepare the hot drinks, and dropped into his armchair. His mind was roiling and he couldn't understand why Sherlock could be so outwardly calm.

The younger man handed his flatmate the cuppa and went to the window with his own mug in his hand. While observing the traffic in Baker Street and taking small sips of the still burning hot tea, he suddenly asked, "What did you tell Lestrade?"

John looked up from his own tea to Sherlock, baffled. He hadn't expected that his flatmate would want to talk about his slip earlier that day at the Yard.

Sherlock was standing with his back to him, but John could see how tense he was.

"I told him nothing, honestly. He did check on you a couple of times, but I didn't tell him anything about your wrist and your mental condition."

"Mental condition…," Sherlock spat, "…that sounds as if I had gone mad."

"Mind you, Sherlock, your behaviour was a bit scary, to be honest." John told him, knowing that he was entering dangerous terrain. He didn't want the Consulting Detective to shut himself away again, now that he had started this conversation himself. He had to seize the moment to find out a bit more about the talk between Mycroft and his brother, so he added cautiously, "It seems you're a bit better now, aren't you?"

"It's… strange. I'm more scared of my emotions than I am of this ludicrous threat against me."

"I fully agree with that. That _is_ strange. What did Mycroft tell you, Sherlock?" John was fully aware of the fact that this was a walk on the edge of a cliff. A little gust of wind from the wrong direction would knock him off it and he would have a lot of trouble re-climbing it to the point where he was now. If Sherlock rejected him, it would become quite difficult to reach this stage of the talk again. It was, however, the perfect opportunityand who knew when it would come again?

Sherlock had turned around, but hesitated. His face was screwed up in what looked like concentration, which was quite atypical, because normally his face was rather relaxed when he concentrated on something.

"Nothing," he replied.

John didn't say anything, because he felt that "nothing" wouldn't stay "nothing". Sherlock's hesitancy had revealed that he was fighting an interior fight: the wish to open up and probably find some relief was struggling against his normal reserved self.

Sherlock was fidgeting with the mug in his hands, rubbing the porcelain with his thumb and circling his index finger around its rim.

"He… found out," he said.

John waited, just looked at his flatmate attentively.

"You were right, John. He's not stupid. I was, though, because I got myself into a fury and the sleeve didn't cover the bandage anymore. He knew right away what had happened. He thinks I wanted to kill myself."

The doctor frowned. "You didn't tell him?"

"Did _you_ believe me when I told you that it had just been an accident?"

John was slightly taken aback by Sherlock's question. It hadn't crossed his mind so far that he might doubt John's honesty.

"I did."

"I thought he wouldn't, so I let him believe what he wanted to believe."

"Sherlock, you must tell him. He's worried out of his wits, you know? It's not just his big-brother-compulsion to know what you are doing, he's afraid of losing you."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "He… cried," he said sheepishly, feeling obviously uncomfortable that this fact had finally slipped from his lips.

John almost choked on the sip of tea he had just taken. So that was why Sherlock hadn't wanted to tell him about the talk between the brothers. John had seen how Mycroft had been agitated by the numerous almost-losses of his brother, so he could very well imagine that even a cold and composed person like Mycroft might occasionally lose control over his emotions. A situation, however, in which two brothers united in their sentiment-is-a-chemical-defect attitude, were facing each other, the one right after an emotional breakdown and the other in the middle of one, would have made John chuckle if it hadn't all been so serious.

"It happens to all of us, Sherlock, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. It just shows how much he cares, you know? Believe it or not."

"I'd rather not believe it."

"That, dear friend, you have to explain, because I don't get it! Why do you still insist on the arch-enemy Mycroft thing?" John said with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"I… was perfectly fine, living on my own, apparently offending people with my … my way of stating the obvious facts. I got along with Mycroft. It wasn't in the sense that you would probably imagine what "getting along" means, but we were fine. It was just as it was. After years and years of trouble, things were settled. And then… "

"… then a limping ex-army doctor moved in with you and spoilt everything, eh?" John wasn't sure at all how he was supposed to understand what Sherlock was just telling him. Was he trying to say that he should move out? Was it his fault that the world of the oh-so clever and emotionally cold Consulting Detective had been turned upside-down? John realized that it _was_ his fault. He had been insisting on Sherlock dealing with sentiment, forcing him to empathize with people, to see what made them vulnerable, to try to understand it and, therefore, had pushed him off the emotional edge.

Sherlock ignored his flatmate's remark.

"… it's just that – that it's so confusing. It's like typing in a computer that only understands binary codes - ones and zeroes … you type in a row of twos and threes. It doesn't make sense and the computer doesn't know what to do with it, so it just says "error" – and that's how I feel with all this. I mean, the nightmares and Mycroft _caring_. I need ones and zeros, I can process them. This is… nonsense to me."

"Well, I _could_ try to talk in ones and zeros, but the message would probably be the same: Everyone sometimes struggles with emotions, Sherlock. You and me and also Mycroft. You might not want to see it and you might not like it, but you know the chemistry behind emotions, so there is nothing to suppress them – apart from probably some drugs that might be of temporary help. The only thing that really helps is to face them and try to cope with them. Talking is an excellent strategy to come to terms with emotions."

"… says someone who didn't tell his therapist a single word and had trust issues until the end?" Sherlock teased.

"Where the hell do you know that from, eh? Mycroft told you, didn't he? That bloody git!" John was furious.

"No. You told me your therapist advised you to write a blog, but you hadn't even started it when we met, so why didn't you? Trust issues. You didn't believe that what she told you would be true. And you didn't tell her anything; otherwise she might have been able to help you with your nightmares and your psychosomatic limp earlier."

John gritted his teeth. Damn, it; Sherlock had seen right through him from the very beginning, he should have been aware of it. He was, on the one hand, but sometimes it still surprised him how the younger man could read people like books, but wasn't able to even open the cover of his own book.

"Right. Yes, right." he replied, defeated. "What's your plan, Sherlock?"

The question earned him a frown and a brief shake of the head from the Consulting Detective.

"I thought I had sufficiently explained my plan. Spread some change among the homeless network and find out who the body and the shot are."

"No, no. I'm not talking about that. Although I think that your plan is not the best – but I have said that already. No, I'm talking about the nightmares, your emotional disaster."

Sherlock turned to the window again, the mug still in his hands. The tea was very likely already cold.

"Mycroft says he can't tell me anything," he said with suppressed anger, clenching his teeth.

"Yeah, he keeps telling me that, too." John stated, a little disappointed that apparently Mycroft stuck to what he had said to him: "Nothing in the world can make me tell him anything".

The Consulting Detective suddenly turned around, shouting. "What difference does it make, though, if he can't or doesn't want to, eh? The outcome is the same! If he does care so much for me, why doesn't he want to help me? It's just _words_ , for goodness sake!"

"Maybe, Sherlock, it's more for him. You can't recall the abduction and the time after, but he at least knows about your state when you had returned home. It must have been a terrifying experience for him, don't forget that. Have you ever thought that it might probably be even more than words for you as well? I mean, I don't know. Maybe there is a reason why he can't tell you other than his stubbornness." John shrugged his shoulders. He didn't have the faintest idea why Mycroft didn't want to talk and insisted on it, even though he knew that his brother felt worse every passing day. Additionally, there had to be a reason why Mycroft of all people lost control over himself and cried in the presence of his brother. John was convinced that if he had had a choice he would rather have started a war in some part of the world than to admit to his brother that he was obviously deeply shaken by what he had gone through.

Sherlock stared at the older man. It seemed as if he was putting together rows and rows of ones and zeros that made sense to Sherlock.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked after some time when he found that his flatmate's absent-minded gaze was becoming a little odd.

"You… might be … right," he replied slowly.

"Right about what?"

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa, swinging his feet on the seat and steepling his fingers under his chin.

John didn't get any response to his question and he realized that it would be in vain to probe any further. The lanky man on the couch was already far away digging for particular memories in the depth of his mind palace. The doctor briefly shook his head and decided that it would be useful to rest a little as the night would be quite exhausting with contacting the homeless network and trying to find information on the dead man and his killer. He would clean and check his gun and take a nap to be fit later.

In the early evening John prepared a light curry for them and forced Sherlock to eat at least a little bit. The Consulting Detective behaved like a toddler when it came to eating – always up to anything but the ingestion of food. The whiff of normality, however, which came along with the eating-matter, felt somewhat reassuring for John. It was almost as if Sherlock was just on any case, refusing to eat while working on it, and not on this particular case that was probably set to have him as a victim in the end.

When night had fallen over London, Sherlock and John put on their coat and jacket and went down the stairs of 221b, heading for a hunt in the cold rain that was incessantly pouring down on the metropolis.


	11. A Shot in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go; the chapter that gave this story its name. Thanks for your comments and kudos! They mean the world to me!  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
> Changing POVs!

They looked like Long and Short, the two figures darting through London's streets. The tall one was wearing a long black coat, quite expensive-looking, and the shorter one was wearing a black parka. They occasionally talked to beggars or ragged-looking persons, homeless people, most likely. He hated them; scum they were, dirty and reeking of poverty, desperation and resignation. He loathed people who let their lives be taken from their hands. Someone had once told him that some of them chose to live in the streets, but that was bollocks. Nobody chose to sleep rough voluntarily. It was just their own fault that they had to. Nowadays people didn't know how to handle things, didn't know how to behave and didn't know how to convince others. Nobody would ever dare to threaten _him_ or to kick him out. He was a man, a real man. He was tough and loyal and powerful.

When his friends had contacted him to say that they had a little problem to solve, he had immediately agreed to help them. He had tried to find out why they had left Great Britain so hastily, leaving everything behind as if they had been in flight, but they hadn't told him anything. They had appealed to the good old times and to their friendship. Their grandfathers had served in World War II together and they had always been close friends. They had said that they had an old score to settle with a family called "Holmes". Yes, the name had rung a bell to him and he remembered the newspaper articles about the internet phenomenon Sherlock Holmes, the super-sleuth.

Finally, after years of only recreational shooting, as he hadn't been admitted to enter the army because of, as they said, psychological instability, he could prove his abilities as a shot. He had always dreamt of a military career, going to war, having power over others, but those damn military psychologists had cheated on him. He was convinced that they had tampered with his medical test results. They didn't want him and so they blamed it on his mental condition. They didn't know what good a man they were wasting.

He was glad that finally he got his chance; however, there had been a couple of problems. It was impossible for him to get a gun and ammunition without raising suspicions. He had tried to find ways to get one, but apparently he had talked to the wrong people. They had just looked him up and down and sent him away. He hadn't wanted to go on asking about as he was risking talking to a spy or something one day. He had to be careful, he was a spy himself and nobody would find out about him.

His friends had warned him that the tiniest mistake could be his final one. So, he had to take a gun from the shooting club and ask his clients, as he called his friends now, for ammunition for it. It was impossible to buy bullets without being registered. The ones he got from his clients, however, were untraceable, at least in Britain.

He had been instructed to first find a random person, shoot him and leave a note on the body. He didn't know why but he also hadn't asked. He was loyal, just as easy as that, he wouldn't ask questions. Contract Killers didn't ask questions, and he was one of them now. Plus, it had been his chance to get rid of at least one of those homeless rats. But he had had to find one who didn't have too many friends. He had been following different individuals of the trash and pretended that he was one of them; a disgusting task, but it had finally been rewarded with the perfect victim. The man had been from abroad, he couldn't remember where from, but didn't have any family who would miss him. He had been living in the streets for just a couple of weeks, had only recently lost his job and hadn't been able to afford his flat anymore. He still had tried to keep up appearances, but had been giving up on that, too. So, that had just been another of those "it-all-wasn't-my-fault-but-I-don't-know-how-to-ge t-out-of-this" roaches, who had better be removed from the streets of London.

It had been more difficult than he would have assumed to actually shoot a human being. His hand had been shaking and he had had to admit to himself that he couldn't kill him when looking him in the face. Therefore, he had waylaid him and shot him from behind. It had been a bit difficult, because a sports gun wasn't designed to kill and you had to be quite close to the person. Luckily, this one had chosen a quite lonely park for his night's rest, so he just had had to wait for him to pass by. And what a coincidence it had been that the park was just around the corner of the sleuth's flat! It hadn't been part of the instruction he had got, but he had thought it to be very clever.

After this bloody bugger of a victim had died eventually, he had had to apply the branding. He had taken a camping stove and a piece of metal in the shape of the long-stretched "S" that was attached to a stick. It had taken him a couple of days to prepare that tool and he had had to practise to heat the metal without burning the stick. He didn't have much time to do the branding, but it all had worked very well. Because of the cold and the quite icy rain, not a single other person had been in the park and he had been able to finish his work without any interruption or the need to move the body.

The smell of burnt flesh had been a bit revolting, but in the end he had found a strange pleasure in doing what he had done and he had developed the feeling that he wanted to repeat it. He was happy that he had been instructed to do it again. He had been a little sad that there had only been a tiny note in a daily newspaper about yet another dead homeless man, because there hadn't been any hints on what had killed him, even not on the branding. That had been annoying. Anyway, his next victim would raise a lot more public attention, which added to the thrill of the task. It was exciting to wait for the man to leave his home, to wait for the right moment. He had had to wait until the sleuth and his little fellow had been to the Yard. He wondered why that had been important. They had told him something about that the Met would most likely contact the detective. He didn't have the faintest idea why that was so important, but anyway, it had been fun – waiting in front of the Yard – in the centre of danger, but he was too clever for them to catch him. When the tall man and his short friend had left the Yard he knew that it was only a matter of days from then on until he could make his second strike.

If only his ex-wife could see him! That old bag had always wailed that he wasn't a real man – and how he had shown her that she had been wrong all the time! He had beaten the daylights out of her one day after she had pestered him once too often. And then she was gone, without any note. He had come back home and expected supper to be ready; instead he had only found the dishes scattered about the whole kitchen, her wardrobe all empty, no note left behind. He had thought she would come back anyway. She didn't have any money to go anywhere, she was dependent on him. And yet, she never returned. He had tried to find out if she was staying with her family in Scotland, but they didn't tell him a word. He had even gone there to drag her back home personally, but she hadn't been there. If it was up to him, she could go to hell anyway. He wouldn't be weak and rely on others. So he had started doing the household-things like washing and cleaning on his own, although he despised women's work. He was convinced that she wouldn't dare call him a sissy if she saw him now.

It was difficult to follow the two men as they were walking, sometimes zigzagging into small alleys that were inaccessible for cars. So he had to find a way around those. He had already lost them a couple of times, but had been lucky to find them again. He had to be extremely careful not to reveal his presence to the sleuth and his follower, who had been looking over his shoulder and scanning the area a thousand times. He was apparently very cautious. Did they knowthat they were being followed? But how? He hadn't asked many questions as his friends paid him very well. With that money he would be able to buy a woman from Asia who would be most willing to fulfil all his wishes.

This was the night when Sherlock Holmes was going to die and nothing could prevent that. The only annoying thing was that nobody had told him that the detective would be followed by this funny nervous puppet at all times. Therefore, he had to get rid of him, too. It didn't matter if the other man died or not, he wasn't paid to kill him, he just had to be out of his way.

When they had entered a particularly quiet road with just a few parking cars and no other pedestrians, he saw his chance. He released the safety catch of his gun and felt the butterflies of excitement fluttering in his stomach.

He had parked the car a couple of minutes ago when the two men had entered the road. He couldn't follow them in the car; that would be too obvious. He had thus sneaked around the corner a couple of times, always avoiding being in sight when the short man did his quite obsessive looking-around. The tall man, Holmes, was about to cross the street. The shorter one was still standing on the pavement, with apparently no intention of following the other one. That was the moment, his moment. He ran back to the car, fidgeted with the cables to short-circuit it, quickly pulled a woollen mask over his face and chuckled. The short man could be a witness, but what he would witness wouldn't help, because he himself was too smart. The car wasn't his; he had stolen it earlier this evening. He had been practising breaking into cars for a while but had never actually taken one before. He could imagine the owners of the cars he had been practising with. They had to have been furious discovering that someone had tampered with the car locks and the starter cables. He chuckled again. They should be more careful with their cars these days.

When he was finished with his job he would just dispose of the mask, get rid of the car and take the gun back to their clubhouse. Nobody would notice that it had been used for other purposes than for shooting at cut-out silhouettes.

He opened the electric windows in the front, floored the accelerator and enjoyed the sound of the screeching rubber of the tyres on the asphalt. He pulled around the corner into the street where the two men were turning around towards him. He couldn't see their faces as he had turned off the car lights. Only then did he notice the black limousine right behind him. It was too late. He had to finish now what he had started.

* * *

 

_**Earlier that evening** _

Sherlock and John strode through the streets of the metropolis, away from the busier parts of it. Here and there they talked to the Consulting Detective's contacts who took the notes Sherlock handed them. He could be sure that their efforts to find something out about the dead man and his murderer would remain unnoticed by anyone outside the network.

It was chilly and the rain had changed from a light drizzle into heavier, splashing drops that made a stay outside rather unpleasant. Apart from those who were forced to walk somewhere and hurried on their ways with their heads bowed to protect them from the icy rain, hardly any pedestrians were to be seen.

Although Sherlock and John felt the cold, too, they didn't pay any attention to it; they were fully absorbed in their activity.

Sherlock's knowledge of the tangle of London's streets was amazing. They went through streets which John had never seen before and, without taking a cab, managed to get quite a distance between Baker Street and their current location.

John had stored his loaded gun in the back of his trousers and his hand occasionally found its way there. It was little comfort to be armed without knowing who the enemy was. John couldn't avoid scanning the area all the time. One could easily develop persecution mania when associating with Sherlock Holmes.

When in a particularly deserted and gloomy road they had temporarily reduced the pace with which they were darting through the streets and alleys, John tried to find out what Sherlock thought about the idea that probably Mycroft's resistance to tell his brother about his abduction might have a deeper reason than just stubbornness or resentment.

Sherlock occasionally looked sideways at John while explaining his thoughts.

"Managing your memories is a bit like putting someone under hypnosis – it IS important to do it properly. If you don't do the hypnosis expertly, your client might not wake up again properly, might be stuck between sleep and wakefulness. If you try to get him out then, he might go insane.

If you delete memories and you don't do it properly, there's always the risk of their re-emergence. It might be delicate, although I doubt that there is a risk of going insane, I don't think so. I'm not sure, however, why, but Mycroft is carefully trying to avoid triggering that. Maybe there's more to it than just the abduction, maybe I might remember something he doesn't want me to recall."

"Oh, Sherlock! Do you still doubt Mycroft's good-will?" John stopped walking. How could he still not be convinced about his brother's caring? He was apparently still trying to ignore it, to get back to what his mind was willing and able to understand, back to his ones and zeros.

"As I said, I'm not sure," he said, turning away from his flatmate and crossing the street.

At that very moment a car shot around the corner of the street without its lights on. John felt his hair stay on end. He ran across the street, at the same time grabbing his gun from the belt of his trousers, but he was too slow. The car pulled slightly to the left and headed directly towards him. He could only manage to shoot randomly at the car's front window before he felt himself taken off the ground and for a moment everything went dark.

"Let him live," was his last thought before he crashed to the ground behind the car. He hadn't heard the popping sounds of the gunfire.

He struggled into consciousness and tried to sit up.

John's world stopped turning and shattered into millions of pieces.

He felt the cold rain on his head, running down his face and the droplets of water soaking his collar. His trousers were all wet and the cold was crawling up his legs, giving him goose-bumps. However, it wasn't just the cold from the rain and the chilly temperature, it was a gruesome cold clutching him, eating him up.

His hands were grazed from the concrete and he was vaguely aware of the burning sensation the wounds caused. He was numb, unable to move. His mouth opened and yet remained silent, the scream wanting to escape from deep inside him stuck in his throat.

Some droplets of rain dripped from his upper lip into his mouth. They didn't taste of water, though. Iron. Blood. There was blood in his mouth. He had apparently hit his head hard on the asphalt.

Everything hurt under the surface of the numbness, a dull pain that became stronger. It was strongest in his leg. He was sure it was broken. He was lying in the pouring rain – injured and broken - but did any of that matter?

John couldn't avert his gaze from Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was lying ashort distance away from him, the bullet hole in his head clearly visible even in the rain and the dark, a cruel black spot on the pale skin. There was a dark rivulet running from the hole, finally forming a small puddle under Sherlock's head. Raindrops splashed into the dark liquid. Sherlock's arms were extended and his coat was spread under him, giving him the surreal look of a dark angel fallen from the night sky.

He had failed. Failed to save his life. All the times in the past months that he had been able to save his friend's life had been in vain. The thought of it tore him apart. John took a deep breath and eventually screamed from the bottom of his heart and soul before darkness embraced him, the echo of his desperation reverberating in the street.

* * *

 

The killer had held on tight to the steering-wheel with his left hand, the gun in his right pointing out of the window. Apparently the short man had become suspicious as he had started running across the street towards Holmes, pulling something from the back of his trousers. Whatever it had been that he had been trying to grab, it wouldn't have helpedhim. He had pulled a little to the left and headed straight towards the short man who had obviously managed to get the wanted item from his back. With increasing fear he had realized that it had been a gun. Who the hell was that man? He hadn't had time to think about it any further when at the same time he fired his gun the five times the magazine held the bullets for and overran the other man with the car. He had got a quick glimpse of the quite surprised look on the face of the short man, however, there had been something else in them.

Only when he felt a sharp pain at the side of his throat did he realize that it had been determination that he had seen in the man's face. He didn't know if he had hit Holmes as it had been quite a lot to concentrate on, shooting the one and running the other one over at the same time. He only hoped that one of the bullets had hit its target.

The sharp pain increased and at the same time he felt tired, almost unable to drive the car. He hadn't been tired before, actually he had particularly taken care of sleeping enough as he knew it would be a long night. He tried to wipe away the stinging, but when he took away his hand from his neck he felt something warm and sticky on it. Blood! That bastard must have somehow managed to shoot him! He felt a weight settling in his body, his arms and legs becoming heavy. He lost control over the car and still in full speed crashed into one of the cars that were parking at the kerb. Not too bad, he thought before the airbags inflated and his head dropped forwards, his eyes open, but dead.

* * *

 

Their boss had instructed them to follow his younger brother on the foot and, in case anything suspicious happened, to intervene with all the necessary means. He hadn't left them in any doubts as to what would happen if they failed their task. They were members of MI6, especially trained for the surveillance and protection of important people, a bit like James Bonds. They took their jobs very seriously – of course they did, otherwise they wouldn't be part of the special forces, but it had been really hard to follow the younger Holmes and his friend, Dr Watson without being noticed.

In a fraction of a second they realized that they had made a mistake. They had seen the blue Vauxhall earlier, but there were hundreds of those on the streets, so they hadn't seen any danger coming from it. Only when suddenly the car had shot around the corner of the street where Holmes and Watson were, did they discover that they had failed in their task. Everything happened so incredibly fast that they only managed to jump out of the car and, while positioning their weapons to shoot the driver from behind, watch their careers at the MI6 go down the drain.

They watched Dr Watson aim his gun at the driver and shoot just the second before the car hit him and he was catapulted over the bonnet and the roof of the car, crashing on the asphalt behind the car. At the same time they saw the tell-tale lightning of gunfire flashing inside the car and heard the bangs of shots that echoed through the streets. The younger Holmes fell backwards like a hewed tree.

A second later the assailant's car collided with a parking car with an incredibly loud crash, after which it suddenly became deadly quiet in the street.

Despite the terrible collision with the car, Watson moved a bit first, then tried to sit up, looking at the younger Holmes. He suddenly screamed heart-rendingly before falling back unconscious.

The two agents made quick emergency calls before they ran the last couple of metres to the two bodies lying in the street, being soaked by the now pouring rain, their blood forming dark puddles under them that were, however, diluted and washed away by the water. Watson's leg stood in an unnatural angle and he was most likely seriously injured - but alive. Sherlock Holmes, however, was dead.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	12. Guardian Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your reactions on the last chapter! I'm not lying to you about the tags for this story - really! :-)  
> The next chapters will be a bit ... different in parts. Enjoy!  
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

People were gathering in the street and some windows in the houses were lit now, displaying the silhouettes of anonymous onlookers who had been woken by the noise in the street. The patter of the rain mixed with the murmuring of the bystanders.

After only a couple of minutes a black car, followed by a lorry and a van turned into the street and suddenly it was quite crowded. Agents in black told the spectators to leave and circled the bodies of the two persons lying on the ground. From the other side of the road another lorry and a recovery vehicle entered the street and more people in black gathered, moving about, working like insects – a complete muddle at first glance, but very effective at the second one. While all traces of the destroyed cars disappeared, two medical teams took care of the injured men.

Suddenly, an exclamation of surprise could be heard. The emergency doctor who had checked Sherlock's vitals out of routine hadn't expected what he found – a flat but steady pulse. The obvious bullet hole in his head had led them to believe that their boss's brother could only be dead.

"Good Lord! He's alive! HE'S ALIVE! Quick! He needs oxygen!"

An oxygen mask was placed on his face and Sherlock Holmes was extremely carefully lifted onto a stretcher, his head fixated with a surgical collar to avoid any movement of the bullet, which could immediately lead to the patient's death. Nobody knew where the bullet was. It was clear, though, that it hadn't left Sherlock's skull as there was no visible exit wound. It was a miracle that the young man _was_ alive, but it had yet to be found out to what extent that was true, that is which parts of his brain had been damaged.

The stretcher was lifted into the lorry that was outfitted with no less medical equipment than an intensive care unit would provide.

Dr Watson was gingerly lifted onto a vacuum mattress and then onto a stretcher by the second medical team. After such a collision with a car it was likely that not only he was suffering from the obvious broken leg but maybe also from vertebra injuries. Every movement was risky. His vital signs weren't good and the fight for his life would be tough and they had to be fast as internal bleeding was most probable. Luckily, the lorry offered all medical technology that all the necessary examination in advance of a surgery could already be done on the journey to the clinic and the patient could immediately be operated upon arrival at the theatre.

A moment before the lorry was about to leave, another black limousine entered the road and stopped directly next to the large vehicle. A man quickly climbed from it and ran to the back door of the HGV. There was a perceptible tension among the agents after their boss had arrived.

When the emergency call had reached Mycroft, he had felt something icy settle in his guts. He had done everything in advance that had been in his power to protect his little brother – had he really failed this time? After he had received John's text about the body and the veiled threat against his brother, he had taken all possible precautions that he was capable of. The only additional thing he could have done would have been to take him in protective custody and that would have been unimaginable for a reason. John had sent him a text that Sherlock didn't want him to ask for protection, and if that was the case nothing in the world but violence could make him accept help.

He had been taken to the place of disaster as fast as possible – he wanted to be at his brother's side. Of course, there was also John Watson. Although there was always a little tension when they were dealing with each other, he had to admit to himself that he had taken him to his heart a little bit. Thus, he was worrying about two people's lives now.

Inside the lorry, the medical teams were each working hand in hand, intubating the two men, starting the ventilation, placing the IVs and administering numerous fluids and drugs before putting the portable examination gadgets in position in order to find out about the patients' injuries.

On Sherlock's side, everyone was looking at the x-ray screen as if spellbound. The skull's inside didn't show a bullet, instead the frontal bone a few centimetres above the eye revealed a bright spot in the grey shapes of the skull's x-ray – the projectile.

"Good Lord! You must be very close friends with the guardian angels, however, you must have annoyed them recently or you'd already be one of them!" the doctor in charge exclaimed. He turned to Mycroft, who was silently observing the entire procedure.

"Mr Holmes, Sir, this happens only once, if at all, in a doctor's lifetime. Your brother was incredibly lucky. The shot must have been fired by a complete amateur; he used a sports gun calibre that can only kill from quite short distance anyway. It would probably have killed him if he had aimed better, but the bullet's velocity was too weak to enter the skull's inside at exactly this spot. It's lodged in the bone. We have to be very careful, though, because of an imminent head trauma. We'll prepare him now for surgery and will remove the projectile. If there aren't any complications, he'll survive."

Mycroft stared at the medical man, clutching to a rail that ran through the middle of the lorry's roof, unable to say anything. His heart was racing, his hands were cold and sweaty; he started shivering from relief. Sherlock was alive and that was everything that counted.

With a slightly trembling voice he asked, "Any permanent damage?"

"We can't say, yet. It depends on the grade of the head trauma."

The doctor looked at Mycroft intently. His boss looked very pale and was swaying slightly; due to the mild rocking of the moving vehicle or because he wasn't feeling well, he couldn't say.

"Sir, are you ok?"

Mycroft wiped his face. "Yes, yes, I'm ok. What about Dr Watson?"

He turned towards the other medical team, who were working at John's side. They were doing an ultrasound of his abdomen and, although Mycroft didn't know very much about how to interpret the pictures the gadget showed, he could see that this wasn't good. There was too much white, almost everything was white.

"Severe internal bleeding," one of the doctors stated. "Indeterminable location. Tell the driver to speed up, inform operating theatre. Before we can take care of the broken leg, we have to find the reason for the bleeding."

Mycroft's heart sank when suddenly he heard the heart monitor make its constant beeping that told of a cardiac arrest.

* * *

 

_He was toddling over a meadow towards his smiling and laughing mum and dad, the grass was swaying in the wind and tickling his legs. With every step it seemed to become shorter - no, he was becoming taller. He wasn't running towards his parents but after a girl. She turned around, pulling faces and calling him funny names – Harry… that was Harriet. He had almost caught her when suddenly she transformed into a pastor, who stepped towards him, pointing at the two fresh graves and expressing his sympathy on his parents' death. The graves were somehow melting, becoming brown, the fresh flowers turning into stones. The tombs opened miraculously and he could look inside them. A soldier with a terrible hole at the side of his head was waving at him. He tried to avert his gaze when all of a sudden the soldier's hair grew longer, became black and curly and his face took on a familiar look. This was the most important person in his life after his parents. This was Sherlock. However, something was wrong. The skull wasn't shattered like the soldier's head had been, but there was a dark spot on his forehead, a bullet hole. Sherlock didn't move. He was dead – and therefore John was dead, too. He remembered pain, a lot of pain, and realized that there was no pain now. That was good, he felt peaceful, the memories of all the pain in his life were fading. He was fading – and he welcomed it. There was no one in his world anymore worth enduring the pain for._


	13. Don't Go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the weirdest chapter of all, however, I was told that people do have these near-death experiences.   
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"Am I dead?"_

"Not yet."

_"Why not?"_

"You tell me."

_"Don't know. Because of you? But you're dead."_

"I'm not."

_"You are. That guy wanted to kill you. So this is death. Heaven?"_

"No. I'm on the side of the angels, but I'm not one of them."

_"Hell then?"_

"You're a good man, we wouldn't meet in hell."

_"Something in between then. And now?"_

"Don't go."

_"You did."_

"No. You thought, but you were wrong. That man _wanted_ to kill me, but didn't."

_"You're alive?"_

"Yes."

_"What is this here?"_

"A little chat. Don't go."

 _"A chat? I'm almost dead – I_ can't _chat. What the bloody hell ...ehm...or whatever... is it? That's_ me _down there - I can see myself down there! What are they doing?! What the...! I can see you too! I see the hole in your head. You're almost dead, too. This isn't a chat! Tell me what this is!"_

"Don't go."

_"Go where? Why do you keep telling me that? I'm fine, better than I've ever been."_

"Don't leave me alone, John."

_"Why can we talk when we're almost dead?"_

"It's your blood in my veins."

_"That's ridiculous! Since when are you a mystic?! You're the most... down-to-earth person I know!"_

"You might have noticed that this is not really down on earth. Don't go."

_"You pester like a child."_

"Don't go, John."

_"Go where? I don't understand this!"_

"Please, don't go."

_"Will you keep quiet if I don't?"_

"I promise."

_"Sherlock Holmes never promises anything to anybody."_

"I do now. Don't go."

_"I have no idea where I should go anyway. Why can't we stay here? It's quite comfy here, nothing hurts, everything just feels... light."_

"You can't stay here. Either you go or you come back. Don't go."

_"Come back? From where? Go where? You really should express yourself a bit more clearly."_

"Just don't go. Do it for me."

_"I have no idea what you're talking about, so… just for the sake of you keeping quiet, I won't..."_

* * *

 

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeep. Beep. Beep. Beep…

On both sides of the lorry there was hectic turmoil. Mycroft was still standing in the middle, his presence as the British Government forgotten by everyone else, his eyes alternately darting between Sherlock and John.

They had tried to resuscitate John unsuccessfully first when suddenly Sherlock's blood pressure had dropped dangerously and for a couple of seconds his heart, too, stopped beating. However, before they were able to defibrillate him, the heart monitor showed the electric impulse of the heart muscle depolarisation again and resumed its constant beeping.

Mycroft release a breath he hadn't known he had been holding and sighed with relief when suddenly from John's side also the irregular but clear sound of life could be heard – beep... beep...

He felt as if the sounds of the hectically working doctors and nurses only reached his ears dully and slowly; he seemed to have tuned out everything but the crucial sounds of the two heart monitors. Mycroft felt dizzy and his ears were roaring. With some effort he managed to proceed hand over hand along the rail to a seat at the back ofthe lorry and let himself drop into it. How often now had he been worrying about his brother's life? And now John! He was used to enduring a lot, but even for him things had simply got too much. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sir, are you sure, you're alright?" the doctor, who had asked him about his well-being before, wanted to know.

"I'm not in immediate danger, so just go and take care of those who need you!" Mycroft snapped, slowly opening his eyes and looking wearily at the doctor, who had already turned around to attend to the duties he had just been reminded of in quite an unfriendly manner.

Mycroft didn't regret what he had said, although he sensed that his reaction had been slightly inappropriate. He was the boss, he didn't have to be friendly, but he was usually calm at least and wouldn't normally allow himself to talk to anybody without looking at them. He was, however, tired of being composed. For once in his life, he only wanted to be a worried brother and friend and England could go wherever it wanted!

When they finally arrived at the clinic, the two victims were instantly taken to the operating theatres and Mycroft followed the cluster of medical staff some distance, knowing that he wouldn't be allowed to access the sterile area anyway and would have to wait outside.

A nurse accompanied him to a private waiting room that was especially designed for the very few persons of the British Government who would send patients to this clinic at all. It was a luxurious room with white leather armchairs and sofa, a high glossy, white cabinet at the wall, a white coffee table and a matching side table between the sofa and one of the armchairs. The crystal glasses that stood upside-down on a green glass tablet on the cabinet signalled that inside there would be some alcohol of the stronger kind. Above the piece of furniture there was a huge television screen attached to the green wall, which was the only colour beside the white. The vases were all white, the lilies and roses in them white, too, resembling the same contrast as the furniture and the wallpaper. One side of the room was completely covered with a high glossy surface with just a few vertical and horizontal lines in it. If Mycroft hadn't known that it contained a built-in wardrobe and a bed, he wouldn't have been able to guess from the surface. In the back of his mind he briefly contemplated whether the linen was green, too.

He wrinkled his nose about the too modern and rather sterile atmosphere of the room. He would have preferred the heavy, dark, but rather cosy atmosphere of his own rooms – or even the mess of Sherlock's flat as he felt somewhat forlorn in his current location.

He stood in the room, alone, not knowing whether he should pace it or sit down. He was one of the most powerful persons in England and he was used to solving every possible problem with no more than a few keys pushed on his mobile phone and a few commands given. _He_ was the one pulling the strings and he knew that everything would always be sorted out in the end since an entire country with all its means followed his well-considered commands. He worked perfectly well under stress – just as John Watson did - and yet, this time it was completely different. His hands were trembling in the light of the knowledge that whatever he did or said, the outcome would always be the same: his brother and his friend would live or die, and he could do nothing at all about it but wait – and probably and strangely enough for him, pray.

He was still standing at the same spot, unable to move, the weight of his sorrow nailing his feet to the floor. For the first time in years Mycroft realized that he was a lonely man. He was never bored, always busy with doing what England requested, he simply didn't have time to think about his personal life. He even enjoyed being on his own, sitting by the fire place and having a glass of fine whiskey. And yet, in this very moment, he longed for company, for a friend he could trust and rely on, even for a shoulder to cry on - and for the first time he really understood what John Watson was for Sherlock.


	14. Forty per cent

Mycroft waited some long hours; worry turning into impatience, impatience turning into fear and fear turning into desperation. Every once in a while a nurse entered the room after knocking cautiously at the door, informing him about the on-going operations of Sherlock and John and offering him drinks, food and whatever else he might need. Apart from a mere glass of water, Mycroft refused everything, being unable to even think about the profanity of eating while his brother and his friend were fighting for their lives.

He had finally sat down in one of the armchairs, staring at the green wall with the flat screen attached to it, his gaze, however, turned inwards. At some point he must have dozed off, because when he woke with a start, a nurse and a doctor were standing in front of him by the armchair and he hadn't noticed them coming in. He gave the two a puzzled look.

"Apologies, Sir. We thought you might want to be informed instantly in case of any news."

Mycroft blinked his eyes a few times to chase away the sleep and to find his bearings. He sat up from his slumped position and signalled the doctor with a nod to fill him in.

"Sir, we were able to remove the bullet from your brother's skull successfully. Fortunately, it, so to say, just scratched the surface. The dura is still intact. If that projectile had hit his head in just a tiny different angle or at a different place, it would probably have killed him instantly. He's not out of immediate danger, though, as the impact of the bullet and the fall backwards caused a grade two brain trauma. Standard procedure requires analgosedation, so he won't be responsive until we can be sure that the intracranial pressure doesn't increase. He's attached to permanent EEG and we had to insert an intraventricular catheter, just in case."

Mycroft looked at the doctor quizzically. He knew a lot more about medicine than most people thought he would, but these explanations were unintelligible for his brain working in slow-motion.

"That is...?" he probed, stifling a yawn. It had been a hard night.

"He's in a drug-induced coma and we had to insert a catheter to his brain as well as electrodes on the dura. It is possible that swelling or bleeding may occur, so with the catheter and the EEG we can immediately diagnose any change and reduce the pressure in the brain."

Mycroft sighed. "I see. – Will he be alright? I mean, what's the worst outcome?"

"Erm, what do you mean?"

"Will he be the same as before when he wakes up?"

The doctor hesitated. "Chances are about forty per cent."

Mycroft jumped from the armchair, his eyes wide open. "Forty percent?! What about the other sixty per cent? What do they mean?"

"According to statistics, sixty per cent of patients with a grade two brain injury suffer from minor to major disabilities after recovery. You... you have to be aware of the possibility, though, that there is still a severe risk of complications which can inevitably change the current state and can even result in death."

All colour vanished from Mycroft's face and he suddenly felt his knees buckle. He dropped back into the armchair, burying his head in his hands.

After a couple of seconds he looked up to the doctor, his eyes glistening treacherously.

"He wouldn't want to live with his brain damaged. It's ... - you wouldn't understand it anyway. Do everything that is possible and necessary to avoid damage! Everything!"

"Of course, Sir."

"No, you don't understand. Everything!"

Mycroft looked intently at the doctor, who endured and returned the look with unspoken understanding. The man in white shook his head briefly.

"I'm afraid, Sir, there is nothing of that sort we could do." He turned to leave, the nurse following him.

"Don't you get incredibly high amounts of money to fund your research? Why isn't there anything you could do?" the older Holmes burst out, even though he knew that that would only alleviate his desperation, without really helping his brother.

The doctor sighed, then turned to leave, the nurse following him. "I'm sorry. We're doing our best."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a second, then remarked quietly, "I know. - What about Dr Watson?"

The doctor turned around again, the door handle already in his hand.

"We're still fighting for his life. My colleague will come soon and tell you the details. It doesn't look too good, though."

Mycroft sat back in his armchair, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. Something had gone terribly wrong. Sherlock and John had been under maximum surveillance and it was simply inexplicable how this bastard had been able to shoot the one and run over the other!

As many people as he could muster were already investigating the case, but he himself couldn't think about it right now. His mind was blocked by, curiously enough, sentiment: Sorrow, fear, hatred, sadness, disappointment, anger, scorn - all of which had never before hit him that hard.

"Can I see my brother?" he croaked.

"If you want to follow me, Sir, I can bring you to the ICU. But... be prepared. It's always a shock for family members to see their loved ones in an induced coma with all the equipment."

"I'll manage", Mycroft replied, although he wasn't entirely sure of it himself. He felt somewhat weak and his legs were slightly shaking when he stood from the armchair.

The older Holmes straightened his shoulders, blanked his facial expression and followed the doctor down the corridor to the ICU. In an anteroom he put on the obligatory sterile gown and protector for the shoes and hair. He had to disinfect his hands and put on rubber gloves. The nurse who had assisted him told him that he didn't have to worry. They just had to be very careful because due to the intravetricular catheter, and the, therefore, open blood-brain barrier, it had to be strictly avoided to let any germs enter the ICU.

Mycroft felt strange and helpless in his disguise. When finally the door to the ICU slid open, he was overwhelmed by these feelings the sight of his little brother surrounded by innumerable machines and attached to innumerable tubes and cables.

He swallowed down the "Oh my God" that had almost slipped off his tongue and stepped towards Sherlock's bed. The head of his bed was slightly lifted so that he was lying bare-chested in a half-sitting position. His eyes were closed and he didn't really seem to be alive. Only the beeping of the heart monitor and the hissing of the mechanical ventilation showed that he was indeed.

Sherlock's head was partially covered in a net cap that held two dressings in position; one at the side of his skull, from which a small tube was running, and one over his left eye. His mouth was held slightly open by a mouthpiece for the endotracheal tube that supplied him with oxygen. On his chest there were the already familiar electrodes for the heart monitor. What caused Mycroft waves of nausea were the numerous cables that stuck out of Sherlock's upper skull. He gasped in shock.

The nurse had noticed his reaction and touched him at the arm soothingly.

"It looks worse than it is. That's the intracranial EEG. To be able to control his brain activity at all times we inserted electrodes under the surface of the skull bone on top of the dura mater."

Mycroft deeply inhaled and exhaled a couple of times to fight the urge to vomit, which had not become much better after the nurse's explanation.

The latter pointed to a stool by the bedside, on which the speechless man let himself sink thankfully. He raised his hand to touch his brother, but let it hover above his arm since he didn't dare place it somewhere for fear that he could do any harm to his ill-treated body or affect any of the tubes and cables that held him alive.

The nurse took his rubber-gloved hand and gingerly placed it on Sherlock's arm.

"It's good that he knows that you're there."

"I hope so," Mycroft whispered with stifled tears. He looked down at his hand on Sherlock's forearm. Even there were a tube from the IV and a cable for the intra-arterial blood pressure testing. It had been long years since one of the Holmes brothers had touched the other one out of compassion or in a soothing gesture. It felt odd and yet familiar – and it was the only thing Mycroft could do.

Sherlock was so still, all the energy that he was normally radiating having vanished completely; a fact that distressed Mycroft even more than the drips and apparatus. Even though he had often found it unnerving that Sherlock was such an energetic person, who never could sit still or simply do nothing, he missed just that right now. Sherlock was only really alive when he was in motion - and he even was when he was in his mind palace- the quietest moments one could experience with Sherlock. Mycroft sighed.

Obviously the nurse either didn't know who he was, or she didn't care about people's rank, when she tenderly and reassuringly squeezed the shoulder of one of the most powerful Britons and encouraged him to talk to Sherlock as it would help him heal despite the fact that the coma was drug-induced and he would most likely not perceive much of it anyway. Then she left.

Mycroft sat there, his hand on his brother's pale, yet warm skin, which he started stroking with his thumb gingerly. He didn't know what to say. For so many years all their talks had been filled with resentment and cynicism; the last brotherly exchange he remembered had been in the morgue the Christmas Day when, supposedly, Irene Adler had died.

"You know, my little brother, we haven't always been like this. We were once good friends, you remember?" He paused, feeling a bit silly about talking this way. And still, it was what he really wanted to tell Sherlock. It had slowly emerged on the surface of his thoughts during the times his brother's life had been in immediate danger. He didn't want to end up with regrets one day when it was too late to say it.

"I've always cared about you as much as my innate stony heart allowed me to. We only became cold after your abduction. Things had changed from one day to the next and we two had built our protective walls. Nevertheless, I've always...," he turned around, checking the room to see if anybody could hear him, then whispered, "... always loved ... my little brother."

Mycroft felt his cheeks blush with embarrassment. Damn, it was his brother, so it should be a natural thing to express your affection! Other people did so too! Yes, other people, but they weren't like other people. The older Holmes was relieved that nobody had heard him – and that he had finally said it.

"Please, Sherlock, fight! Will you?"

Mycroft looked up to Sherlock's face. There was no movement behind the eyes, no reaction at all. The skin looked waxen and strange. The black curls had partially been shaved where the EEG cables stuck out from his head. The sight made Mycroft cringe.

Suddenly there was the sound of the door to the ICU sliding open and Mycroft let go of Sherlock, turning around to see who it was. A doctor was standing in the entrance, shaking his head ever so slightly. Mycroft shivered.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	15. Phone Calls

Mycroft stood up from the stool, unable to hide his fear of the news the doctor had for him. The latter shook his head more determinedly; then a faint hint of a smile appeared on his face.

"Mr Holmes, it's unbelievable how lucky your brother was, and how much Doctor Watson and he clung to their lives. Although we didn't have much hope for Dr Watson, he has made it so far. We had to fight with the blood pressure drops and two more cardiac arrests, but he's alive for now and we were able to stop the haemorrhage. It seems that his soul wants to stay on earth, but his body isn't really convinced of it. The internal bleeding could have killed him easily, but it didn't, which is quite a wonder considering its severity."

Mycroft stared at the doctor disbelievingly, his words sinking in only slowly. A veil of worry had blurred his perception and had led him to misinterpret the doctor's slight shake of the head. John was alive! He sighed, closing his eyes in relief. He was surprised about the extent to which emotions were able to influence one's thoughts. He needed to resume his objective thinking to be able to work decently.

"I'm... glad", he managed to say. "What about his other injuries, the leg?"

"Well, there is an open multiple fracture of the tibia and fibula of the left leg. We had to fixate it externally. We hope that there won't be any complications that could result in a limp."

Mycroft snorted, which evoked a puzzled look in the doctor.

"My apologies. This, however, holds a kind of paradoxical humour. I suppose you have not read Dr Watson's entire medical record. Otherwise you would know that he had had a limp already, even though it was psychosomatic. I imagine he would be able to live with it as he is used to it – somehow."

The doctor raised his eyebrows in reaction to the slightly cruel humour of his opposite number, but didn't comment on it. He cleared his throat and went on.

"Erm, yes. The leg isn't the worst of the problems. As I said, he suffered from severe internal bleeding from a spleen rupture and, what is worse, a rupture of the liver. We had to remove a part of the liver, but were able to keep the spleen since not the entire blood circulation was interrupted. Dr Watson is a trained military man, which may have saved his life. He knew how to fall and did so instinctively, therefore, he only suffers from a severe concussion instead of a fractured skull. He's bruised all over and there is a serious contusion of his left shoulder, but it's not broken."

"Good – that's good. Are there any complications to be expected from the organ damage?"

"Internal bleeding is always a dangerous thing and sepsis is a comparatively common complication. We're closely monitoring the spleen and liver functions and can only hope that they don't fail. He's administered antibiotics in high doses, but that's pretty much all we can do right now besides waiting."

Mycroft nodded his understanding. "Where is he?"

"We'll bring him in here soon. He'll also be sedated for a couple of days to reinforce the healing."

"I see", the older Holmes replied. He felt awkward. He wasn't used to dealing with people who were completely helpless and unresponsive and even though there had been those moments of sentiment, he fought against being pushed into a nursing role for both Sherlock and John. He would take care of them as well as he could, but there were other people who would be much better in the nursing role. John would call them his friends – and even Sherlock had done so lately, so he would inform Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and DI Lestrade – and, if necessary, Harriet Watson. He wasn't all that sure about the latter. She had been under surveillance for quite a time now, and all they had found out about her was that apparently after she and her partner had split up, she spent most of her day drinking in different shabby pubs before staggering home in the late evenings, many a times too drunk to get the key into the lock of her tiny and run-down flat. He knew that John and Harriet didn't have the closest relationship – and that was pretty much an understatement – but in the event that John wouldn't survive this, it was his duty to call her and to bring her here. He would only call her, though, when things became serious as he was convinced that her absence would be of a bigger help than her presence.

Only moments later the door to the ICU opened again and another hospital bed was rolled in. This was the second time Mycroft had both his brother and John in the same hospital room, unconscious. However, last time, after the Tabun poisoning, both their conditions had been more stable and the immediate danger had mostly been over. Seeing the two flatmates by each other's sides, deathly pale, surgical wounds spread over their bodies, attached to all the intensive care apparatus including ventilation, was a really distressing sight, even for Mycroft. The lizarov-apparatus, that fixated John's fractured bones externally, stuck out from a ridiculously swollen leg, the shiny metal contrasting with the disinfectant-red skin in a rather revolting way. Mycroft felt unsure about whether he should step up to John, but after some seconds of indecisive contemplation he pulled himself together, walked over to the ex-army man's bed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll make it, John. Don't give up." He hesitatingly and gingerly patted the warm skin once, then turned to leave and call the others.

When he left the mansion that accommodated the hospital, night had already given way to bright daylight. After the constant rain of the past days the rays of sunshine that broke through the grey gave a little warmth that finally gave proof of the delayed spring. The ground was still wet from the rain, which made it sparkle from the sunlight here and there. Mycroft pulled his silver pocket watch from the vest of his three-piece suit, a movement that was as natural as walking to him, and was surprised that it was already after midday. The operations had taken an incredibly long time. He felt the fatigue settling in his brain, but as much as he longed for a rest right now, he couldn't give in to it as there were numerous duties to be fulfilled.

His black limousine had been waiting for him and drove up to the entrance now in order to pick him up. He waited until the chauffeur had opened the back door for him, however, only to take his umbrella that had been leaning against the back seat.

"Pick me up in half an hour. I want to walk a bit."

There was no need to tell his driver where he was supposed to meet his employer, he would find him.

Mycroft had instructed the hospital staff to inform him instantly of any changes to the men's conditions, but before he was able to call their friends, he needed to get some fresh air. It wasn't typical of him to hesitate before telling somebody unpleasant facts, but this was just different. He had to clear his mind of the emotions that had simply overwhelmed him since last night. So he walked slowly down the street, his umbrella clicking a lackadaisical rhythm on the pavement.

After walking for a while Mycroft sat down on a bench by a tree, fishing his phone from his pocket and simply staring at it. It would be hard for the old lady that was Sherlock's landlady and for a particular reason even a grandmotherly figure for his brother, to hear that "her boys", as he had heard her call the two men, had been severely injured and were still in danger of losing their lives. He would send her one of his agents to check on her and to pick her up.

Mycroft wasn't convinced that Lestrade was actually a friend of Sherlock's, but he had to have a word with him about the assault anyway. There had to be something special about Lestrade, though, since Sherlock spent a fair amount of time with the DI, solving crimes for him. His brother wouldn't bother wasting time sitting in his office and waiting to be filled in on a case by a rather slow-minded policeman, if there wasn't any trace of friendship. Plus, he had to admit that the DI took Sherlock's antics better than most other people did, apart from those he was about to call or were sharing Sherlock's fate.

Molly Hooper would most likely take it worst and would make a big fuss. When he had met her weeks ago to question her about the source of the poisoned petri-dish and had told her the white lie of Sherlock and John lying low with a Noro infection due to a petri-dish that had been delivered by an errand boy from Barts, she had been running around in her laboratory like a headless chicken, stuttering and asking him over and over if she could do anything, before she had finally calmed down a bit and managed to talk to him without her tongue slipping in every second sentence.

Only when the black car pulled up to Mycroft, did he eventually dial Mrs Hudson's number.

"Mrs Hudson? This is Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"Are you with me?" Mycroft probed.

"What happened? Good God, Mr Holmes, it can only mean bad news when you call me - and you sound... worried!" she finally replied.

He hadn't been aware of the fact that he did sound worried – he had only introduced the talk, not even said anything further -, but in the light of what he was going to tell the old woman there was no need to lie to her about his feelings. So he told her what had happened without hiding his sorrow. Apart from a couple of exclamations of the "Good Lord"- kind she remained relatively calm, although her voice became a little hoarse. Stifled tears, Mycroft thought.

Lestrade's reaction was rather professional. Mycroft had the impression that he simply was too much of a professional to let his emotions get the better of him. The silent pause after the description of the incident, however, had shown him that the DI was indeed also shocked.

Molly Hooper's reaction, however, was completely unexpected to Mycroft for he had been prepared to find her quite agitated. As opposed to last time, she was all composed and just wanted to know if she could be of any help. Only the fact that her questions and answers were rather whispered than spoken in a normal tone hinted on the turmoil in her. Mycroft didn't know her so well. She was a bit of a mouse both in her behaviour and her appearance, but he wasn't actually able to judge her; however, what he had to bear in mind was the fact that she was used to seeing injured people – although the ones that she saw were mostly beyond the line of immediate danger and would be cut up by her anyway. Therefore, she had to be a bit of a tough cookie as well. She was apparently a bit like John Watson: the more stress one put on her, the calmer she got - or his words simply hadn't sunk in so far.

After the calls, Mycroft felt less relieved to have other people in charge of nursing Sherlock and John than he had expected. Strangely enough, he felt somewhat drawn back to the hospital, but for the sake of England, he had to go back to his office to at least delegate the most pressing businesses. And yet, for the first time in his entire life, he made a decision that simply came from the bottom of his heart and wasn't influenced by reason. In fact, it was entirely against reason as he hadn't been available for more than twelve hours now, which usually was unimaginable. This time, however, England had to survive without him for another couple of hours. He would stay at least so long until the three persons he was awaiting had arrived and he had talked to his brother and John's friends personally.


	16. Mrs Hudson and Molly

Mycroft had been sitting in a chair between the two ICU beds, doing nothing, which felt extremely strange for him. He wasn't allowed to turn on his mobile, didn't want to read any tabloids and couldn't talk to the unconscious men - he didn't know what to say. He wondered what normal people told their unconscious relatives or friends – of course, people in general had normal professions that would provide them with anecdotes they could share, which he definitely couldn't. Telling the two state secrets would probably not be all that risky as they wouldn't know anything about them when they woke up, but Mycroft still wasn't tempted to give them away. They were secrets, not to be told to anyone. So he just waited.

Mrs Hudson was the first to arrive. When the automatic door to the ICU opened, Mycroft would have felt a strange urge to giggle at the sight of the short woman in the green gown with the ridiculous cover for her hair and shoes, had he not been aware of the fact that he looked pretty much the same and had it not been obvious from the expression on her face that she was in complete shock at the sight of Sherlock and John.

She covered her mouth with her hands to obviously avoid a shriek, then took in a ragged breath, tears welling from her eyes and trickling down the wrinkles of her face that told of happy as well as hard times.

Mycroft rose from his chair and approached Mrs Hudson when all of a sudden she stepped forward and embraced the baffled man. Due to his tallness she rather hugged his waist, his arms forced to his side by the tight clutch of the surprisingly strong elderly lady. He cleared his throat, his eyebrows raised in a mixture of embarrassment and astonishment. Mrs Hudson loosened her embrace, eventually letting go of the older Holmes completely, stepping a little backwards until she had brought a more comfortable distance between them.

"Oh, dear! I... I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes, it's just so... awful!" she staggered in a high pitch with her voice almost failing her. Her cheeks were still wet, but after her impulsive reaction she seemed to have returned to a slightly more composed state.

"It's alright, Mrs Hudson, in the light of the events it is, I assume, acceptable that you overreacted a bit," Mycroft stated, causing Mrs Hudson to furrow her brow in dismay, straightening her back and inhaling deeply.

"Overreacted?! Mr Holmes, at least I did react! I don't know how you manage to display such inappropriate heartlessness! Is it possible that I misperceived your worry entirely when we spoke on the phone?" the old lady scolded indignantly.

The addressed man was slightly taken aback – due to his inability to deal with people's emotions, let alone with his own, he had pulled himself together and resumed his usual behaviour. He hadn't really meant to offend his brother's landlady – it was just the way he was, the way he felt safe with. However, it seemed that Mrs Hudson's nerves were hanging on a silken thread.

"Apologies," he mumbled.

She continued to glare at him for a moment before her eyes softened and she nodded briefly, clasping her hands in front of her chest. Possibly close proximity to his brother had prepared her for occasional examples of apparent heartlessness. As if his behaviour had reminded her of Sherlock, she tilted her head in the direction of the two beds and whispered, "Can I... go to them? Can they hear us?"

"I don't know if they can hear us, but I was told that talking to them might... be useful."

"Useful?" she asked, obviously newly outraged.

"Help them recover," Mycroft corrected himself, sensing that "useful" had apparently sounded somewhat cold.

Mrs Hudson looked at the older Holmes intently, then nodded slightly. Mycroft had seen the trace of fresh disapproval in her glance. Gosh, that woman could be somewhat intimidating! He wondered what he was supposed to do, what Sherlock's landlady expected of him. Although he had experienced unfamiliar emotions lately, he would never be a sentiment-driven human being, it just wasn't his nature. It was one thing to reveal his inner self to his brother, but it was an entirely different thing to do that in front of strangers.

Rather hesitatingly, Mrs Hudson went to Sherlock's bed first, wringing her hands helplessly.

She just stood at the bottom of the bed for a while, watching the still man, her shoulders shaking ever so slightly from time to time. She was apparently sobbing quietly. Mycroft couldn't see her face, but her body language wasn't too difficult to read. After some time she wiped her face, stepped up to the side of Sherlock's bed and gingerly took his limp hand in hers.

"I feared something like this would happen sooner or later, Sherlock! Why do you always have to chase those ... bloody criminals? They do get put out by you snooping around in their business. I told you it wasn't decent to just consider everything a game! But Sherlock – don't... let me have to rent the flat to somebody else, will you? Don't!" Her voice broke and Mycroft could see the tears running down her face again.

She walked around the bed to John's side and in the same way like before took the ex-army man's hand in her own cautiously. She quietly supressed some sobs.

"You... you... shouldn't have gone with him. I knew you wanted to protect him, but, John, if only there had been someone to protect you!"

Suddenly, she let go of John's hand, turning around slowly and piercing Mycroft with an accusing look.

"You should have protected them, Mr Holmes! Don't you have your men everywhere?! Why weren't they there when your brother and John needed them? Tell me that!"

Mycroft cleared his throat in exasperation. How dare she!

"Mrs Hudson! As much as I tolerate and even appreciate your worry about my brother and his fellow soldier, don't you think that this is none of your business? Don't even dare to think that I neglected my duties in keeping a careful eye on my brother! Perhaps the next time I need surveillance for him, I'll engage you for it, shall I?"

She looked at him with a tear-stained face, eventually lowering her gaze. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft, I – just can't believe that this has happened! Forgive me."

The aristocratic man ignored the fact that Mrs Hudson had just called him by his first name. She was older than him, but he was in a position of considerable authority and was not used to people using his first name casually, whoever they were. He didn't feel like suggesting that she use his first name officially, so he made no comment.

With a nod of his head he signalled his acceptance of her apology.

"What can I do?" she wanted to know.

"They will remain in the induced coma for a couple of days and they need someone to talk to them, to read out a book to them, provide them with gossip or whatever. I thought you and Ms Hooper were the perfect choice for this task."

"Mycroft Holmes! This is your brother! Don't you think you would be the perfect choice for it? Don't you think England could manage some time without you?!"

"In fact, it has already for more than fourteen hours, and – with all due respect to my subordinates – no, I don't think so."

"You are a cold-hearted man, Mr Holmes! Shame on you!"

"Now, now, Mrs Hudson. Don't forget yourself! You'd better think twice before jumping to wrong conclusions. I feel it's time for you to leave now. You'll be taken home and picked up tomorrow at eight in the morning. Be ready. Good bye."

With that he literally pushed her out of the door to the anteroom where a nurse helped her take off the ICU clothes and led her outside.

Old women could be exhausting. And yet, seen from her angle, she wasn't that wrong; but Mycroft had no intention of adjusting her image of him.

Only shortly after Mrs Hudson had left, Molly could be heard chattering in the anteroom before she entered the ICU.

"I have just met Mrs Hudson and she was quite upset... uhm... – Good Lord!"

At the sight of Sherlock and John Molly stopped short. She stood there, the baggy trousers peeping out from the ICU gown, the stout shoes complementing her unflattering look. Mycroft wondered how such a highly-educated woman could never have developed any sense of dressing well rather than just comfortably and practically. In fact, the people she was dealing with all day long never complained about her look as most of her clothes were covered by her white gown, almost like now, and the people were dead anyway. If ever she intended to attract anybody, which obviously she had been trying with Sherlock, she would have to attend a seminar on how to dress properly. Mycroft knew she didn't come from a posh background, fought her way up – or rather down – to become a pathologist, but hadn't her parents ever taught her how to look after her appearance just a little bit? He and Sherlock had always been used to wearing tailored suits and shirts as a flawless appearance had been one of the highest principles in the Holmes house. He had despised it when he had been very young, dreading the reprimand that inevitably followed playing outside, but these days he almost felt uncomfortable with his suit jacket taken off.

What on earth was wrong with him? What did it matter how Ms Hooper dressed while Sherlock and John were lying close to death? He shook himself mentally and focused on the pathologist, forcing a small smile.

"Good day, Ms Hooper."

Molly's hands, that she had been kneading a fold of the green cloth with, dropped to her sides, her gaze fixed on Sherlock and John.

"They look so dead. – Err,... no, sorry,... I didn't mean..., no. I know they're not, but they're just so... pale and lifeless. – Not lifeless, motionless, that's it. Motionless, yes."

She briefly threw a glimpse at Mycroft, not bothering to greet him properly. She went to John's bed, looked him up and down, her hand hovering just above his skin as if she was sensing something with it. She finally placed it on an electrode-free spot on his chest, closing her eyes for a second.

Mycroft watched her, intrigued by her strange behaviour.

With a rather determined movement, she took her hand away only to stroke John's hair in a motherly gesture before turning around and stepping up to Sherlock's bed.

Some tears were making their way down her cheeks, but to Mycroft's surprise she was otherwise fully composed. She obviously hesitated slightly, then did as she had done with John, only now the older Holmes could see her face better than before and he realized that she was mumbling silently to herself. What was she doing? He was just about to ask her, when she looked up, facing him.

"It doesn't look too good, does it, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft looked eyes with her, very slowly shaking his head. This shake of the head felt like an admission to himself, something that he had been aware of, that he had known but hadn't truly realized. It didn't look too good.

"Do you want me... to stay with them and talk to them? You know, I can do that," she offered a little shyly.

"I do assume you can; and yes, I would very much appreciate if you could stay – and talk. The doctor says..."

"... it helps." Molly finished the sentence. How was it possible that this mousy woman didn't seem to be intimidated a tad neither by the hospital nor by his presence. She rather showed a surprising strength, something that all of the three men, including himself, needed after this terrible shot in the dark.


	17. ICU Talks

Molly Hooper seemed to be quite in her element, checking the medical equipment and data displayed by it and ignoring Mycroft entirely. To his surprise he was somehow fascinated by it. He wasn't used to being apparently invisible as usually he was the one in charge and having control, quite often being the one doing something, instructing or interrogating others. A snide remark was on his tongue, but he swallowed it down. It had more come from a habit rather than from being uncomfortable with the situation.

Although they had never spoken about it, Mycroft knew that Sherlock thought highly of Ms Hooper, and he had wondered why that was the case. He had assumed, though, that it had been due to the fact that she was very easily manipulated and, therefore, was the willing supplier of Sherlock's body parts and whatever else he needed for his unfathomable experiments. Thus, he had always assumed that this woman had only been the means to an end, but had to realise now that he had been wrong. Although his brother wouldn't speak of it, Mycroft was convinced that Molly Hooper was tolerated by Sherlock because of her professionalism.

Mycroft had been lost in thought when he noticed Detective Inspector Lestrade standing by his side, taking in the picture in front of him and muttering unintelligible curses.

The older Holmes turned towards Lestrade, nodding his greeting to the DI.

"Thank you for coming, Detective Inspector."

"What the bloody hell...- who did that?!" he hissed.

"That is something yet to be found out. We need to talk. - Will you follow me outside, please?" Mycroft ordered without giving the DI the opportunity to look at his friends more closely.

Molly turned towards the two men, looking sadly at Lestrade.

"Greg..., hi. Come over here."

The DI glanced at Mycroft briefly, then went up to Molly. To Mycroft's apprehension and even contempt, she threw herself in the other man's arms, letting him hug her and mumble a soothing mantra to her. For God's sake, where was her professionalism gone now? After a time that felt endless to Mycroft, the two parted and DI Lestrade walked up to Mycroft.

"Let's get this over with," he remarked unhappily.

Mycroft gave him a cold look. "I do hope for your sake that there wasn't any possible that you could have avoided this disaster. Otherwise, dear Detective Inspector Lestrade, you may be saying farewell to your career."

Lestrade briefly hesitated before following the British Government while the threat was sinking in.

Molly watched the two men leave the ICU. Whoever's fault this was didn't matter to her; what was important, though, was that John and Sherlock survived.

* * *

 

The pathologist placed the stool between the two beds and dropped on it, burying her face in her hands. She felt terrible. She was cruelly reminded of the last days of her father's life in which she had attended to him, talking to him all the time although she knew that he wouldn't hear her – and never would again. She had been prepared for that moment when the heart monitor switched from displaying waves to drawing a flat line – at least she had thought so. And yet, it had hit her so terribly; the fact that at that very moment he was gone forever had struck her like lightning, throttling her throat so that it took her breath before she had burst into tears and had only stopped crying a month after his funeral when she had had her first strange and humiliating encounter with a certain Sherlock Holmes and had instantly fallen for him, God knew why!

And now she was sitting here at this very detective and his flatmate's bed, fighting against the urge to bawl. She would not. She would remain strong and help John and Sherlock. They were seriously injured, but it wasn't hopeless – not at all, just serious, she told herself. She took in some deep breaths, fighting back the tears that had been welling in her eyes. With a final little sob she pushed away all the sentimentality and started chatting, slowly and raggedly first, then more confidently. What did it matter what she was telling them? So she told them about the interesting bodies she could recall having on her autopsy table. It was good, though, that nobody else could hear her. Talking about dead bodies in an intensive care unit with two people being close to death would probably generally not be regarded an appropriate topic for cheering somebody up.

From time to time Molly stood up, checking the monitors. She couldn't help but stroke John and Sherlock occasionally. She felt it was her motherly side that forced her to. It was somehow natural with John, as he was her friend – and just that. However, with Sherlock, she hesitated. It was weird, since from the moment they had met first, Molly had always dreamt of touching Sherlock tenderly, of caressing him, but now she realized that probably it hadn't been so much only the physical contact she had been longing for, but his recognition. She did have a crush on him, but now that she was touching Sherlock, it felt odd.

Molly had taken one of Sherlock's hands into hers, stroking it with her thumb and looking at it; a hand with long, slender fingers, nails perfectly manicured, elegant and strong; and yet right now so weak - so feeble. Upon turning his hand around to look at the palm she flinched. There was a slim but tell-tale red line on his wrist. The pathologist gasped at the sight of those marks she knew too well – usually they weren't healed when she got to see them. However, this cut wasn't entirely healed, she noticed, still quite fresh indeed with little reminders of the scab still on it.

"What have you done, Sherlock?" she choked, tears springing to her eyes once again. Was this tough and outwardly cold-hearted man not so much the icy character he made everyone believe he was?

Her heart pounded and she quickly looked at his other wrist, but didn't find any traces of a slash there. Thank God! Molly wiped her eyes dry, condemning herself for being so tearful. Realizing that she had completely missed that her supposed friend had apparently had an emotional meltdown, made her gravely sad. On the other hand, she hadn't seen Sherlock in quite a while, so how could she _not_ have missed it?

"Poor you," she whispered and lay his hand back at his side.

Molly was a hundred per cent convinced that the slash wasn't the outcome of an accident, so she guessed that the reason why the other hand didn't show any signs of a suicide attempt was that John had been there in time to prevent it. It was always John. Sometimes she envied Sherlock for having such a loyal friend and she had to admit that she sometimes even wondered how he had got himself a mate like him. It wasn't about the meeting - she had been there herself when they had met for the first time - it was about how they had become so inseparable. She wondered if she could she ask Mycroft about the slashed wrist, however, she wasn't sure if he knew anything about it as she knew that they weren't really close.

* * *

 

After more than an hour Greg returned to the ICU without Mycroft, looking weary.

Molly stood up, wringing her hands uncomfortably.

"Didn't go too well, did it? Uhm..., I mean, you look tired." She tilted her head, trying a wobbly smile.

Lestrade passed his hand through his hair and briefly pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'll keep my job, so, I'd say it went really well," he replied with despairing irony. He told her that he had assumed that Mycroft's calm but disdainful behaviour was concealing the straightforward and tough nature that was required of the secret leader of an entire nation. However, he hadn't realised that being questioned by the man would be such an awkward experience. Mycroft had always remained calm, but the longer Greg had had to stand the questions, the more he had felt uneasy. He hadn't done anything wrong, though! Mycroft seemed to have come to the same conclusion eventually when he had been dismissed with the advance warning that in case of any further questions he would have to be prepared for a visit to his office by Mycroft's men.

Pointing in the direction of John and Sherlock, he said, "I'm fairly sure Mycroft has already sent out entire armies to find something out about the man who had tried to kill them. I wonder...," he let the sentence trail off.

"What?" Molly probed.

"I just wonder if... this has anything to do with the case I gave Sherlock and John only yesterday. – Nah, can't be. Doesn't make sense. I reckon we'll just have to wait until they're awake to find out what they were up to last night. Don't think they were just on a stroll through the beautiful London night."

"No,... no, I don't think so, either. What case, Greg?" Molly said with a small voice.

"Let's not talk about it, ok?" Greg replied seriously. "I... can't stay, I'm afraid. What can I do for them?"

"Help Mycroft find the perpetrator." Molly replied with a note of hatred in her voice that made Lestrade furrow his brow. He looked at the pathologist intently, then nodded and turned around to leave.

"And come back whenever you can," she said behind him. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, nodding once again and sighing, before the door to the ICU anteroom closed behind him.

Molly went back to her stool. She needed a proper chair if she wanted to stay for longer and would ask the staff for one later. She checked the data displayed by the apparatus and pursed her lips about the figures of the cerebral pressure measured by the permanent EEG in Sherlock's head. She hadn't read their files up to now out of respect for their privacy, but she found herself reading Sherlock's now, just to familiarise herself with his current management, so she could alert a doctor should his condition become unstable.

The pressure was slightly increased - the almost inevitable brain swelling had begun and they could only hope that the catheter would be sufficient to drain enough liquid to prevent a dangerous pressure level. That would lead to another operation in which the skullcap would have to be removed and frozen, so that the brain would have enough space for swelling without destroying itself. Molly didn't want to even think about it. It was terrible enough to see those cables sticking out from the Consulting Detective's head; just thinking of all his hair and the top of his skull removed caused her waves of nausea. She had seen a number of patients – dead or alive – who had undergone the same treatment to save their lives and they had all had something of Frankenstein's monster afterwards, the stitches of the retransplantaion of the skullcap always visible around their foreheads. Plus, many of them had been left seriously handicapped - and she definitely couldn't imagine a handicapped Sherlock!

After some hours of being on guard, talking to the patients and to some of the medical staff, Molly was sitting by John's bedside in the much more comfortable chair a nurse had brought her, watching the ex-army doctor and Sherlock alternately. The intracranial pressure of the latter had further increased, but so far, the catheter, now filled with a yellowish-reddish transparent liquid, prevented it from becoming life-threatening.

Molly was exhausted, however rejected all offers to be taken home for a rest. She finally folded her arms on the edge of John's mattress, resting her head on them and instantly falling asleep, dreaming weird and terrifying pictures of creatures with metal sticks sticking out of their heads, surrounded by nasty scars, babbling and slobbering.

She woke with a start, sensing that she was being watched. Molly had no idea as to how long she had been sleeping, but she found it rather a relief to be awake after a row of nightmares. Her neck was all tensed up and after stretching it and moving her head from one side to the other, she looked up into Mycroft's tired face.

"I didn't want to wake you, I'm sorry," he said with a voice that clearly resembled his physical state of utter exhaustion.

"No, no. It's fine. I... didn't sleep well anyway. Not really the place to sleep, is it? Uhm, at least not for us... me. I mean, they sleep, but they have to..." the equally tired pathologist stammered. She hadn't met Sherlock's brother that often, but every time she had, he had been such a git. However, now he rather exuded a certain, yet mainly concealed helplessness. Molly felt sorry for him. It had to be hard to carry the weight of responsibility for a nation when your sibling was lying in a hospital bed fighting death.

"I suppose not," Mycroft replied.

Molly got up from the chair, bowing her spine backwards to ease the pain in it, before checking John's vital signs and stroking his arm up and down reassuringly. She then went over to where Mycroft was standing, checking on Sherlock.

"Hasn't got any worse, fortunately," she mumbled.

She took Sherlock's hand in hers, checking the IV in the first place. However, upon laying it back at his side, she turned it around carefully, presenting the fine red line between the tendons to Mycroft. She turned her head to look the older Holmes in the eyes, asking silent questions.

The tall man took a deep breath, shaking his head.

Molly didn't want to give up now.

"What's wrong with him?" she probed whisperingly.

Sherlock's brother sighed. "Paradoxically, his brain is sometimes almost killing him."

"Like now." Molly remarked, instantly sensing that that had been incredibly tactless, but before she could apologize, Mycroft just nodded.

"Like now."

"What happened?" the pathologist wanted to know.

Very slowly, Mycroft laid his head in his neck, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes, his brow furrowed as if he was in pain.

"Ms Hooper, that is private matter."

"Private matter, you say? May I ask you how private it was to bring me here to be there for John and Sherlock? I'm their friend, and I guess that's very private!"

Mycroft instantly became stiff.

"You may be the closest thing to friends Sherlock has, but if you were that close, he would have told you himself, wouldn't he?" the suddenly very formal Holmes spat.

Molly was taken aback. What had happened to make the atmosphere in that room suddenly drop below zero? Mycroft's remark stung – the truth in it stung.

"You're right. I had better go home to get some sleep," she replied, downcast and close to tears.

"Wait!" As she turned around to leave, Mycroft grabbed her arm to prevent her from exiting the ICU.

She locked eyes with him.

"You know, Mr Holmes, people tend to think – Sherlock... thinks, I don't observe; I don't count; I'm just mousy Molly, who doesn't care being taken advantage of! It's not true! I'm not... all that. If you think everything is just a private matter, I really wonder what I'm doing here?"

"My apologies, Ms Hooper, I didn't mean to offend you - honestly." Mycroft stated rather shamefacedly, still clutching to her arm. "Stay, please."

"You need me because you have nobody else, do you?" Molly stated bitterly.

"I need you because you are somebody Sherlock trusts – he would entrust his life to you, I'm sure of that, Molly," he replied softly, loosening his grip.

She looked at him for a long time in search of the truth behind those words, but she couldn't find anything apart from an unspoken plea. Molly slightly tilted her head, setting her gaze on the hand on her arm.

"I... don't want to let him exploit me, you know? It's just that... he... uhm... he... puts some kind of spell on me."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, remarking in a slightly mocking manner, "Oh, that's what you call it..."

"Call what? What do you mean?"

"Nothing. – Stay, please, and let me tell you something about Sherlock." The older Holmes evaded a proper answer by giving in to her request. Molly was slightly surprised about it since she had thought that a man like Mycroft would never surrender, not even for such minor matters that didn't affect the whole nation.

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm staying for John and Sherlock's sake. Got that?" she replied defiantly.

Mycroft raised his hands in a placating manner.

"I know. And I am very grateful. I will return shortly, Ms Hooper."

They looked at each other for a moment before Mycroft left the room, leaving a totally confused and dog-tired Molly behind.

The pathologist let out a puff of air and resumed her old position on the chair, waiting for Mycroft to return and keep his promise. What a strange man he was! Molly could imagine that he didn't have many friends, but she wasn't sure if he wanted any after all. Like Sherlock, he showed an apparent lack of empathy and she wondered whether it was genetic or drilled into them by the way they had been brought up.

While she was mulling over Mycroft's character, she saw him enter the ICU with two cups in his hand. One had to be Mycroft Holmes to be allowed to bring coffee into the ICU as a visitor! Molly was grateful, though, when he passed her the steaming mug.

Mycroft was wondering why on earth he had succumbed to telling Ms Hooper about Sherlock. He had to admit to himself that he was fascinated by the contradiction of her insecure appearance and her secure professionalism. Although he thought that she was quite a chatty person regarding matters of little importance, he felt instinctively that he could entrust her with his brother's personal secrets without her batting an eyelid.

Mycroft sat down on the stool in his usual elegant manner despite the time of the night, leaving the chair for Molly. After having taken a few sips of coffee, Molly looked at Sherlock's brother questioningly.

"So?" she probed.

Much to his own surprise, Mycroft told Molly Hooper a good deal about Sherlock's past, the Tabun poisoning and the fact that he had told her a white lie about the Noro infection and also about his brother's abduction as a child, even a little bit about his own role later. However, his descriptions were deliberately vague, leaving out the more sensitive details. When it came to Sherlock's slashed wrists, he told her about his struggle with the memories of his captivity, but couldn't tell her anything about the true reasons for his meltdown. Mycroft felt a little uneasy about the fact that he as Sherlock's brother knew in fact so little about him from talking to him personally rather than from spying on him.

He also felt some unease, at various points in his narration, about whether he was doing the right thing by Sherlock. Although he felt he could trust Molly to be discrete and he knew that his brother had a good opinion of her, would Sherlock really want this young woman to know what he had gone through? And yet, whenever he hesitated, he glanced at his unnaturally still younger brother and had a conviction that it was for a best. Sherlock might need more than one friend to support him in his recovery. After all, horrible though it was to contemplate, John was by no means out of the woods himself and it was still quite possible that the doctor would eventually succumb to his injuries while Sherlock recovered. Mycroft could hardly bear to imagine the impact such a loss would have on his brother, but the logical part of his brain was already considering the alternative possibilities – hence his decision to enlighten Ms Hooper.

The talking became easier after some time and the older Holmes even felt a certain relief about sharing his knowledge, which was certainly unexpected. He was used to keeping secrets to such a degree that every piece of information he was entrusted with was always assessed as to their national value before being stored in his mind.

Molly sat there, listening and looking utterly baffled by what she was hearing. She didn't interrupt Mycroft's tale at any time, which he appreciated a lot, but he was wondering what was going on in her mind, having expected her to be a rather difficult listener, interrupting and asking questions all the time. He had misjudged her completely.

Mycroft felt a little friendly intimacy building up between them, something he hadn't known... since his younger boyhood when he used to have playmates he would even have called friends. It had to be a pre-school memory he was recalling right now, because he could only remember having classmates and colleagues later, none of whom qualified as a friend as such – they had rather been useful contacts. And that was what he had nowadays: useful contacts, many of them. However, Molly Hooper didn't fit into that category.

In the early morning, the exhausted pathologist simply fell asleep in the chair after some time of comfortable silence between her and Mycroft. He ordered that she was taken home to get some rest. Daylight was already breaking, so Mrs Hudson would soon be there to take over.

Before leaving, Mycroft stood between the beds of John and Sherlock, tired and empty of thought. He just looked at the two unconscious men, blinking away silent tears of something so lost that he didn't even know what it was.

* * *

 

Some days passed by, Molly and Mrs Hudson taking turns in guarding and "entertaining" the two comatose patients. Mrs Hudson forced herself to stay composed and less touchy, although Mycroft really could blow her top every time they met. Lestrade came by whenever he could, which was quite regularly, however, not for long each time.

Sherlock's condition didn't change much, either for the worse or the better. After two days during which his doctors worried about possible brain haemorrhage, the swelling showed the first signs of decrease. They were all relieved that no further operation would be necessary.

The night Molly had questioned Mycroft about the traces of a suicide attempt at Sherlock's wrist had amended her image of the Consulting Detective. She could now see a good deal of humanity in the man that hadn't been the image that had sprung to mind on the first occasion that she had had to deal with the younger Holmes.

All the times later that she had spent sitting at his bedside, she couldn't refrain from seeing Sherlock with different eyes, seeing the frailty in him that had been hidden so well so far. However, one thing that suffered from this new view was her crush on the Consulting Detective as it slowly turned into something firmer and more comfortable, a feeling of friendship, just friendship.

After a week in induced coma, the doctors decided that John Watson could be woken up. He would be in enormous pain due to the fractured leg, but the spleen and the liver didn't show any signs of an inflammation. He had a slight fever, but it was below any alarming state. Molly insisted on being there when he woke up and convinced Mycroft that it would probably be better if it was just her among the doctors the clinic, so after some arguing Mycroft gave in eventually, only leaving with the promise granted that he would be called as soon as John was sufficiently awake and stable. Molly reminded him of the fact that, although he would be awake, he would not be in a condition to answer any questions instantly, which would take a couple of hours' or even days' time.

So, one morning a team of doctors and nurses entered the ICU, Molly already awaiting them excitedly. After a close examination of John, the ventilation was switched off, the endotracheal tube removed and the IV with the drug inducing the coma disconnected. Instead of the tube John was given a nasal cannula to provide him with extra oxygen.

After some time the heart monitor showed an increase in heartbeats, which was the sign for an imminent wakening of the patient. Molly's heartbeat increased in the same way in eager anticipation. Everyone was carefully watching John's vitals, prepared to immediately intervene in case anything unforeseen happened. Molly couldn't help but sit down on the stool close to the bed and take her friend's hand. It was meant to be a comforting gesture for the patient, the soothing effect on the one holding the hand, however, wasn't to be underestimated.

Molly felt the ex-army man's fingers slightly twitching in her hand; then, with his eyes still closed, he moaned weakly, the heartbeat speeding up even more.

"He's in pain. Adjust the morphine dose to ten milligrams," one of the doctors instructed the nurse.

Molly kept stroking John's hand; she could feel his muscles tensing up in the still semi-conscious fight against the hurting in his body.

"It'll all be fine. You'll wake and the pain will be gone. Don't worry, John, it'll all be fine," the pathologist whispered reassuringly, though knowing that it wasn't all true.

All of a sudden, the pulse increased dramatically and John's breath came extremely fast and shallow, the heart monitor setting off a cascade of alarms – he was apparently hyperventilating, his hands becoming cramped.

"He's going into respiratory alkalosis! Arterial pH at seven point five! - Mask and rebreathing bag! Diazepam, ten millilitres! If the pH doesn't drop we'll have to intubate again!" The doctor shouted urgently.

Molly had got up from her seat, knowing that she would be in the way if anything more serious happened. She watched the doctors working hand in hand, trying to get John's breathing under control. She herself knew a good deal about medicine, could read and interpret most of the data displayed by all the apparatus in the ICU, however, in case of a real emergency, she was rather helpless. Work in the morgue was a quiet thing without the inevitably hectic nature of emergencies where every decision could be one about life or death. It felt terrible to know that the cause of _this_ emergency was a friend, was John - and she could do nothing to help him.

Molly felt numb and cold inside. It took a while before she realised that the immediate danger was over, John's breath having evened out and the pH of the blood having gone back to slightly above normal.

"Was he panicking?" she asked with a thin voice.

The doctor turned towards her as if he had noticed her for the first time now.

"It looks like it. Sometimes traumatised people hyperventilate after cardiac arrests and upon awakening."

Molly's jaw dropped. "Cardiac arrest? – I ... didn't know that."

"He cheated death three times. He has a strong will to survive."

The shocked pathologist threw a quick glance at the still Sherlock. "Yes, I assume he has."


	18. John

Nothingness. Blank. An occasional breath of something, however. What? When? Or where? There was neither time nor place; it was floating in nothingness, drifting through colours, flying with clouds through the silence.

The occasional something was so vague and tender and warm, reaching into the incorporeality and preventing him from crossing the line and dissolving his mind from his body entirely.

And all of a sudden, there was suction, strong and painful. He himself materialized. The peaceful emptiness was gone and suddenly his mind was filled with images flashing like a high-speed slideshow, images of rain and blood. A bullet hole and a scream. His own scream. The bullet hole in Sherlock's head. His friend - dead.

He couldn't breathe. He tried to suck in air, but it still felt as if there was no oxygen in the gas that filled his lungs. He had to breathe faster. It didn't help. He felt as if ants were crawling over his body, coming from the fingers up his arms, the prickling becoming unbearable. He couldn't move to get rid of them and he still couldn't get enough air in. He was suffocating. Very distantly he heard the ants whisper. He had never before heard them and it was terrifying.

Very slowly the feeling of the iron weight in his chest decreased and made breathing easier. The ants had apparently let go of him and made their ways back to where they had come from, leaving a light tingling on his skin. The pictures in his mind lost their cruelty and disappeared into his subconscious, leaving him exhausted and afraid of their return.

He now realised that the ants' whispering had in fact been people talking. It seemed as if his brain was turning up the volume to outside sounds. His mind, however, was so veiled that he couldn't understand them. He wasn't sure if he wanted to understand them.

Now that his brain took up its work, the nerves transmitting data from the body towards it, he felt pain. Everywhere. He had a notion that it was connected with the pictures in his mind, but they were locked away currently, so he couldn't put the pieces together. He tried to assess the discomfort **.** It was inside him, burning like fire. Rather a smouldering than an open fire. Pain medication. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he knew he was right. The pain killers made it impossible to determine where the source of the discomfort was.

He heard a groan that was closer than the indistinct whispers and suddenly felt the same tender warmth he could remember distantly from the emptiness. It was on his forehead, his cheek, his hand. A touch. Whose touch?

"Shush," he heard a whisper, a female voice, familiar, but he had difficulties identifying it.

He tried to say something, opened his mouth, but exhaling so much air that it would make his vocal cords vibrate was an unattainable task. His throat hurt, it was sore.

Slowly, the world around him materialized and the perception of his body and the sounds surrounding him became a little clearer, although he couldn't muster the energy to open his eyes. He felt his fingers that were still prickling a tiny bit. He must have hyperventilated.

Suddenly, one image made its way back from his subconscious to appear in front of his eyes – that of Sherlock lying dead.

There was the groan again, and he realized that the sound was coming from himself. He couldn't help it. He felt panic crawling into his body. It wasn't a dream; the image was the last thing he remembered before he had passed out. There was more that he should remember, but he couldn't. Sherlock... dead! The thought filled his brain, leaving no space for other thinking processes. It was about to take his breath again.

There were the gentle touch and the soothing voice again. Molly's voice. Why was Molly there? Was he in the morgue?! Unconscious in the morgue – that was a bit not good. Was she doing an autopsy on him? No, she was talking to him. She wouldn't normally talk to the bodies she was about to cut up. He was cold and he needed to open his eyes and he was subconsciously aware of his thoughts being weird and confused. He was wakening.

"Shush, John, calm down, he's alive. Sherlock is alive."

Sherlock. Is. Alive. Why did she say that? Why did she lie to him? He didn't remember much, however, the picture of his best friend lying dead in the cold rain wasn't a dream. He finally forced his eyes open, blinking a couple of times to chase away the blur, trying to focus on something. There were a couple of unknown faces above him, staring at him. Slowly, a familiar face came into his vision – the face that belonged to the voice that had talked to him. Molly.

"Hi John," she greeted him, "I'm glad you're awake."

He just stared at her.

A bright light suddenly flashed into his eyes and disappeared instantly.

"Normal reaction of the pupils," said one of the faces. A doctor. He averted his gaze from Molly, looking around as much as possible without moving. He was in a hospital. Again a hospital! He felt the light breath of oxygen in his nostrils and the equipment he was able to see clearly belonged to an intensive care unit. What exactly had happened? He looked back at Molly, his eyes wide open now.

"How are you? ...not that I expect you to say you're fine, I know you can't be, but... are you in pain?"

"Sh... Sher...," he was too weak to finish the word and he closed his eyes in exasperation. He needed to know what she had meant by "Sherlock is alive" for it couldn't possibly be true. He had seen the hole in his head!

"Sherlock? He's here, over there." Molly tilted her head into a direction away from his own bed.

With all the strength he could muster, John turned his head just a little bit and gasped in shock. That _was_ Sherlock - alive. Kept alive, he corrected himself, but not dead as he had believed. A pang of coldness shot through his body. Sherlock was kept alive, but what if it that was it, if he was brain-dead and they were only ventilating him to keep his organs intact?

John felt bile coming up his gullet and while trying to supress the nausea, it burnt like fire in his sore throat. He choked and coughed, which sent beats of pain through his abdomen.

A doctor urged him to look him in the eyes and instructed him how to breathe away the nausea while Molly was stroking his hand.

"You'll be fine, John."

After his breath had evened out and the nausea had mostly vanished, John looked again over to his flatmate's bed. He heard Molly speak about Sherlock, how lucky he had been and that he was out of the most imminent danger; her words, though, didn't quite reach him instantly. It took him a few moments to realise what she had said. His vocal cords still failing on him, he just closed his eyes and tried to crack a smile of relief at Molly, who slightly squeezed his hand in understanding.

John wanted to ask a hundred questions, but his brain insisted on shutting down for a rest. Two words, however, were humming in his subconscious when he was drifting into sleep and he didn't have the faintest idea why they were there. They just didn't make sense, but he was unable to clear his mind from the repetition of the words "Don't go."


	19. John II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I re-read my own chapters, I am currently reminded of the people who really went through something like this or go through it right now.   
> I don't know how many of you know the world's best Formula 1 driver Michael Schumacher, who is currently in an induced coma after a head trauma caused by a skiing accident in December. He's in the process of waking (has been for weeks, and that's the part that I'm taking a short cut about in my story), but so far nobody really knows which damage the accident has caused to his brain. I cross my fingers for him.   
> The other one I think of is the son of one of my readers who had his skull cap removed at the age of eleven due to an accident with a metal ceiling fan. He made it and is fine, thank God.   
> I only learned about these cases after I had written this part of my story, but it feels a bit strange sometimes to think about those who have to go through this in real life.   
> ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John didn't know how much time had passed since he had woken up first. He realised that he was drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes seeing Molly at his bedside and sometimes Mrs Hudson. In the very back of his mind he had so many questions, so many things that needed clarification, but he had felt too exhausted to even think about formulating a sensible sentence or process those that were spoken to him properly.

He had had strange dreams that still felt so real, dreams of him being in an entirely different world, a world full of green with waterfalls everywhere, watching human-like creatures with pointy ears discuss their intervention in a kind of war. It felt as if he had been right in the middle of it, however, he had seen everything from a curious angle, like a child or a dwarf. Together with some of the beings he had had to flee and suddenly there had been an aeroplane which he had climbed into, only to find Sherlock in the pilot's seat, preparing a take-off. On John's objection that he couldn't fly that plane, he had insisted on being the commander of that vessel and that he knew very well how to fly it. John had found himself pulling the yoke forcefully to lift the plane up above mountains that had suddenly come to life, throwing stones at them. The dreams had been so incredibly weird, and yet the images had been so real. He could still feel the echo of the feeling of the gravity pulling at his guts during the bumpy take-off.

Slowly, his senses took up their function and the confusing images as well as the feeling of cotton wool in his brain subsided gradually. He had distantly perceived that a doctor had talked to him, informing him about the reduction of the dosage of the sedative he was being administered due to hyperventilating in his awakening process. John couldn't remember anything.

He did remember the dreadful feeling of loss of his best friend, and the shock he had got at the first sight of Sherlock with the permanent EEG and his first thought of him being brain-dead. Either impression had been about to tear him apart; however, Molly had soothed him and reassured him that Sherlock wasn't dead. This weight had been taken off of his heart, and yet, now that his brain worked better and he regained access to his own medical knowledge, he felt new worry settle in his mind. The intracranial EEG wasn't a good sign, as wasn't the fact that Sherlock was still kept in an induced coma. As much as John tried to remember what exactly had happened, he wasn't able to. It was as if his mind had shut a door that he wasn't able to open. A door in his mind... – it rang a distant bell in him.

Suddenly everything shifted into place: it wasn't a door in _his_ mind, it was Sherlock's mind palace: the abduction, the swastika and Sherlock's monogram on the dead body, their nightly walk through London in an attempt to find something out about the body or the killer, the car that had suddenly appeared out of nothing without the lights on, clearly aiming at them, the sight of Sherlock on the ground with blood running from his head. However, there were gaps. He remembered fidgeting for his gun, but he couldn't remember what had happened then and to him, why he himself was in such pain, albeit it was dull, suppressed by the medication he was administered through the drip.

All the pieces he had, however, made sense when put together. The ciphers on the body had in fact been a threat towards Sherlock and someone had apparently tried to kill him, but hadn't succeeded – fortunately. So far. The thought was nagging in his subconscious. He didn't know anything about his friend's condition, he was just assuming things from what he had been able to see from his bed as he hadn't been awake enough to talk to anyone.

When John finally managed to open his eyes, he didn't look into either of the women's faces he had expected. Instead, upon turning his head just a little bit, green eyes and a smile that he always found slightly artificial met his gaze – Mycroft.

"Good evening, John."

Mycroft was sitting at his bedside, dressed in the usual ICU clothing. Despite the seriousness of the situation, John felt a giggle in his throat. The protective cap looked particularly ludicrous on the personified British Government, who would have serious problems keeping his authority towards his men when being dressed like that.

"Evening?" John wondered, his voice all croaky due to his still quite sore throat.

"Yes. You were woken from the induced coma four days ago in the morning; however, your responsiveness had been a bit ... weak since then. How are you feeling?"

It was a strange thing to be asked about your condition by Mycroft, and John scrutinised the other man trying to find the underlying purpose in the question. He had to admit to himself, though, that it seemed that Sherlock's brother was just asking for the sake of knowing how he really was. Mycroft neither had any deceptive traces in his gaze nor did he avert it. He just looked at him.

"I feel like... I have been... run over by a car," John replied, the image fitting his current condition quite well.

Curiously enough, Mycroft laughed..

"You never lose your sense of humour, do you?" he asked, still smiling.

John was slightly confused, although the possibility that the choice of image of how he felt came closer to reality than had crossed his mind so far, was beginning to dawn on him.

"I was... indeed...?"

"Yes, John, you were, in fact, run over by a car. Well, to be precise, you were catapulted over a car after it had hit you."

"Can't remember."

"No. But what _can_ you remember?"

There they were. This was not a well-meant visit – not entirely at least – but an interrogation.

John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Look, John, I'm not here to blame you for anything, quite the contrary, but we need to know what happened to find the one pulling the strings behind all this."

Mycroft's voice sounded tired – and despairing. When John opened his eyes again he found the same traces in the older man's face and eyes. It seemed that Sherlock's brother was hiding his personal agitation and covering it with his professional duties. The feeling of resistance against Mycroft and his questions that had been building up in John suddenly dissolved. Each time anew he caught himself inwardly accusing Mycroft of being cold as a stone, but by now he really should know better.

"You once again proved me right, John," the older Holmes added quietly.

"Right? With what?"

"You will never be anything else but a soldier, Afghanistan is everywhere you are. _Your_ theatre of war is now at my brother's side and your instincts haven't suffered at all from your recent tendency towards laziness and an over-indulgence in takeaway food, leading to a general reduction in physical fitness."

John looked at Mycroft, puzzled. It was a special Holmes-characteristic to encipher a message in a mixture of facts and insults, so that a normal person was unable to understand the core of it.

"What are you talking about?"

"You saved him. You shot the man in the car. If you hadn't, he would have shot straight and Sherlock would be dead."

The doctor's eyes opened wide. A faint memory of him pointing a gun at the front window of the car made its way up from his subconscious.

"Thank you, John. I do appreciate your abilities."

John was too baffled to say anything and it simply felt strange to hear Mycroft thanking him for the third time in only a few months' time for saving Sherlock's life; and even for him being himself – a soldier.

"... just... self-interest," John mumbled, grinning weakly at Mycroft, although he absolutely meant it and he was sure that Sherlock's brother wouldn't see anything humorous in it either.

"Now, John, what I know so far is that you and Sherlock went to the Met to meet your friend Lestrade – I assume to get my brother some criminal riddle to occupy his mind with – and that in the evening you suddenly texted me that he was in danger." Mycroft slightly tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, looking at him patronizingly. "DI Lestrade reported to me about the dead homeless man with the branding. Is there any connection that I should know of, John?"

"Suppose so," John admitted. He really didn't feel like talking as the dull but constant throbbing in his abdomen and his leg were quite irritating; not so much painful, but distracting. With a shock he had realised that his leg was fixated with an Ilizarov-apparatus, which meant that it was fractured, most likely multiple times. He hadn't had the chance to talk to anybody about his injuries, but John sensed that the pain in the upper part of his body resulted from internal injuries, which were frequent when losing a frontal fight with a car. On the other hand he knew it was important to tell Mycroft what he knew. So he mustered all his remaining strength and talked.

"The branding... Sherlock said... it was a warning for him. When... when you put the lines together differently, you... get... a swastika, an S and an H." John closed his eyes, the fatigue pulling his eyelids down and making it almost impossible to open them again.

"Don't sleep, John, just a few more questions, then I will let you rest. It is obvious that Sherlock saw a connection to the Tabun poisoning in it, but is there any proof of the theory?"

John was already half asleep and only managed to get out an unvoiced "No". He was subconsciously wondering how Mycroft had made the leap to the Tabun so quickly – it had to be something in the Holmes genes that made it possible for both brothers to grasp things so very fast.

Very distantly he heard Sherlock's brother sigh before some shuffling sounds accompanied John into his sleep.


	20. Waking Sherlock

Mycroft had hoped to get some more information from John, although Sherlock's deduction of the branding was already of great help. It actually seemed that this was the connection between Lestrade's case and the assault on his brother and John Watson. At least it was a trace they could follow.

More than he would admit, even to himself, Mycroft was relieved that John had woken up and was as good as could be expected under such circumstances. Before he had paid him a visit, he had talked to the doctors. The fractured bones and the external wounds were healing quite well; the liver and spleen didn't show any signs of failure, so John had been very lucky indeed, particularly when taking the three cardiac arrests into consideration. The risk of hypoxemia, and, therefore, possible brain damage and a real coma had been terribly high, so it was rather a miracle that nothing of the like had occurred. They didn't venture a prognosis as to the likeliness of a limp in John's leg, though, but time and physical therapy would be the best treatments to prevent any impairment.

The drainage in Sherlock's brain had served its purpose, so that the dreaded operation in order to remove the skull cap to give the brain enough space for swelling hadn't been necessary. The swelling had decreased and most of his brother's reflexes were rather normal again. They had already reduced the dosage of the narcotic and with the next reduction the next day they expected him to wake up. They could only hope that neither the projectile itself nor the trauma had done any damage to Sherlock's admittedly exceptional brain. The neurologists had decided to leave the permanent EEG in place for a couple of days to see the reactions of the brain when his brother was awake. However, the forty per cent recovery-chance was still nagging at the back of Mycroft's mind. What if Sherlock didn't fully recover? He pushed the thought away – first things first. What-ifs wouldn't help him at all.

The very first thing he had to do was to instruct his people to pick up the scent of the assailant's connections to the expelled family who had tried to kill Sherlock before. He would never have thought that they would dare take any steps towards any member of the Holmes family after his very clear threat against them. In the highly likely case that Sherlock had been right – as much as he loathed Sherlock's "work", he couldn't suppress a tiny whiff of admiration for his brother's hit rate -, they would definitely and terminally regret their foolishness.

When Mycroft was ridding himself of the protective clothing, Molly entered the anteroom. He had seen her a couple of times, but hadn't spoken to her much. She looked pale and tired. He knew that she was spending far too much time guarding Sherlock and John, neglecting her own duties and needs. Mycroft had known that she was loyal, but hadn't even distantly imagined that she would commit herself to her task as much as she did. A thought suddenly crossed the older Holmes' mind: would anybody do the same for him? He forced it back, but as quick as it had been, it had already left trails of a feeling of sadness and emptiness - he couldn't think of anybody.

"Hi," Molly interrupted his thoughts, giving him a shy smile.

"Good evening, Ms Hooper," Mycroft replied politely, producing an equally honest smile.

"How are you?" she wanted to know, scrutinizing him.

"They're fine, according to the circumstances."

"No, I wasn't asking about _them_ , Mr Holmes, I was asking about you," she butted in on him, looking at him bravely.

How could he have missed that?! He had simply been too absorbed in his thoughts about John and Sherlock – and the realisation that having someone who cared for you wasn't too bad after all. "I'm fine, thank you for asking," he added quickly.

She gave him a strange look; and with a hint of shaking her head, she stated, "You're all the same, you and Sherlock, you know?"

Mycroft had just been about to ask her about her own well-being, but the words got stuck in his mouth. He pierced her with a questioning gaze.

"What do you mean?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing. I'm sorry... nothing." Molly replied quietly, lowering her eyes.

"Molly."

The almost tender calling of her name surprised both the addressed person and the speaker. Mycroft hardly knew Molly and she knew him even less, thus he was really intrigued by what she had said, however, his vocal chords had just played a trick on him. There was something fragile about Molly on the one hand, but on the other hand her openness stunned him – he liked her. Was that what had happened to Sherlock? Did he "like" her? Neither he nor Sherlock frequently, if at all, used this word in connection with persons, things or activities. Sherlock wouldn't even say he liked playing the violin. He would rather call it "being helpful", "relaxing", "stimulating", but simply not that he _liked_ playing the expensive instrument.

Mycroft could see that Molly was squirming with uneasiness, so he decided, for the time being, to leave it with that.

"They are going to wake Sherlock tomorrow. I hope you understand that I would rather be there then, no offence. I will call you as soon as we know how he is."

"Um, yes, it's ok. Fine. I'll be at Mrs Hudson's, so... um... I can tell her. She needs some rest anyway."

"Yes, and so do you. Don't stay up all night, Molly. You won't be of any help if you collapse from exhaustion."

She laughed a little nervous laugh, but he could also see something else in her eyes. Gratitude?

"Take care – and thank you," Mycroft said and honestly meant it.

He turned around and left the anteroom. The past week had left its marks on him as well. He was sleep-deprived, and an occasional throbbing pain in his chest warned him to take some rest as soon as possible as well.

* * *

 

The next morning John felt much better. The actual restorative value of his sleep was noticeably increasing. Coming off the sedatives was good and he felt a lot more powerful than the day before. He even took a first attempt at raising his headboard so that he was almost sitting in his bed. This, however, caused him waves of pain in his guts, so he rang the bell and lowered himself into a flatter position. He still hadn't got any information as to his own condition, and reaching for his record at the end of the bed was simply impossible.

Only seconds after his ringing, a nurse entered the ICU and left again to fetch the doctor in charge after John had asked her about his injuries.

Upon entering the ICU, the doctor greeted John with a broad smile.

"Good morning, Dr Watson. I'm very pleased to see you this well. I heard you would like to know what damage the car did to you."

He sat down by John's side.

"Since we're talking at eye level, I won't try to gloss over the truth."

John felt his hands become cold. He could see the external fixation device on his leg and he knew that it wasn't used for simple fractures. Also, the constant pain in his abdomen and the fact that he had been put into a coma for a couple of days told him that there was something more, something more severe. With his eyebrows raised expectantly, he listened to the doctor, who matter-of-factly gave him a complete medical report on his injuries.

John's heart started pounding when last he told him about his cardiac arrests. He lowered his gaze, watching the IV cannula on the back of his hand with sudden interest. He now knew that mainly liquid substitutes, pain killers and antibiotics were flowing through the needle into his veins, but unexpectedly, he had a distant feeling of the many different drugs administered and the hectic hustle accompanying a patient's cardiac arrest. It was a strange thing to hear about yourself being so close to death and not having the faintest clear memory of it. However, there were again those two words reverberating in his mind which didn't make any sense to him: Don't go. Why did he always have those words in his head?

His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor getting up from the chair by his bedside.

"You know, Dr Watson, there must be something here on earth that clings to you so much that even the grim reaper isn't strong enough to pull you on his side. I'm glad you made it."

He smiled again genuinely, pointing into Sherlock's direction.

"And in an hour we're waking him up. I hope he'll do as well as you did."

"So do I." John spoke from his heart, although his mind was still overwhelmed by the doctor's narration of his own injuries.

The doctor left the ICU and John laid his head back into the cushion and closed his eyes. What was one supposed to think or feel when getting to know that they had escaped death three times and had a good chance of recovering almost fully?

"Thank you," John whispered without even knowing whom he addressed. He was just grateful, otherwise, however, entirely numb. He had expected more or less what the doctor had told him, and yet, he had to process the information.

The impending limp was the only thing that annoyed him. He had had a limp for too long and he would do any exercise that would prevent him from developing a limp that wouldn't be psychosomatic!

"Damn leg!" he yelled, hardly resisting the urge to beat the bloody limb, which wouldn't have been wise in many ways. Damn leg, he murmured again, exasperated and yet sensing that a limp wouldn't be the worst compared to brain damage. If only Sherlock was ok - nothing else mattered at the moment.

Some time later John was woken from the nap he hadn't noticed he had fallen into by a medical team entering the ICU, accompanied by Mycroft. Although the older Holmes possessed a natural authority, he looked slightly forlorn among the doctors. A thought struck John that the reason for this impression lay in the fact that Mycroft was scared. It had to be the same feeling of fear that he felt himself, caused by the uncertainty of the outcome of Sherlock's awakening. John knew that today they would only be able to see if there were any signs of an awakening at all.

He shifted in his bed trying to reach for the remote to raise his headrest to get a better sight of Sherlock. A nurse came to his assistance, adjusting the tubes and cables so that he couldn't remove any accidentally. This second attempt at a sitting position went far better than the first one and John assumed that they had to have administered him a higher dose of the pain medication. He was fairly sure that they had talked to him about it, but it wasn't uncommon for recently woken patients to talk and answer questions without remembering later.

There were four doctors, most likely a neurosurgeon, a neurologist, an anaesthetist and the intensive care specialist that John had talked to earlier. He had seen two more of them before at his own bed, so he assumed that the fourth had to be the neurosurgeon he himself hadn't needed.

His gaze met Mycroft's, whose face was now blank of any expression. John had learned from too many other occasions that that meant nothing. He was convinced that the older Holmes was as excited as he was, which was clearly visible from his heart monitor that showed an elevated pulse and an increase in blood pressure. The intensive care specialist stepped up to John, checking on the other data displayed by the monitors.

"A bit nervous, Dr Watson?" he asked casually, winking.

"Quite difficult to hide, huh?" John croaked, his voice still hoarse from the tube.

"Then let's see if we can wake Mr Holmes." He looked at him and Mycroft alternately, the latter being unusually quiet.

One of the other doctors reported on Sherlock's current condition.

"Reduction of the dosage of the narcotic during the last four days has gone well so far. Reflexes are inconspicuous, gag and breathing reflexes are still inhibited. We've decided to suppress the rebound-processes by administering hydrocortisone."

For the first time Mycroft spoke and his agitation was clearly audible in his voice.

"Speak English!"

"Apologies, Mr Holmes. It is common that patients waking from a coma develop post-traumatic stress disorder due to the emotions they experience during the awakening. This is caused by the influence of adrenaline on the part of the brain responsible for emotions, the amygdala. During the wakening process, the patient's body is literally washed over with adrenaline, so we suppress its uptake."

"Post-traumatic stress disorder!" Mycroft spat, and he set his gaze on John, a suddenly strange smile on his lips.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. What the hell was _that_ about? He was diagnosed with PTSD himself, but Mycroft had made it very clear that he doubted this diagnosis.

Before the baffled soldier could say anything in reply, Mycroft twirled around to face the doctor.

"If anybody ever speaks of emotions in my presence, I will have them arrested and brain-washed! I will delete this word from their vocabulary!" he hissed between gritted teeth.

Everyone's eyes widened and neither of the doctors dared to speak.

"Mycroft. - Mycroft! Calm down. That's how human beings function, so don't let this unsettle you," John intervened, knowing that his words could very well have the opposite effect of what he was intending.

For a brief moment there was silence in the room apart from the regular background sounds of the various machines. Abruptly, the wild look in the personified British Government's eyes subsided and he seemed to be a little disoriented for a split-second before mumbling his apologies.

The doctors went back to the work they had come for, adjusting the syringe pumps and cutting Sherlock off of the sedative. All they could do was wait and monitor the Consulting Detective carefully. Within the next couple of hours he should show signs of awakening, however weak they might be.

John didn't know how much time had passed; he had obviously drifted into another dreamless sleep. When he woke up again, Mycroft was sitting at Sherlock's bedside, scrutinizing his younger brother. The anaesthetist and a nurse were leaning over his flatmate and John realised that they were removing the ventilation tube. The sound of gagging had apparently woken John.

Gagging was good, it meant that the breathing and gag reflexes were no longer suppressed and Sherlock was at least able to supply himself with oxygen and didn't need the intratracheal breathing aid any more.

"His eyelids are fluttering." Mycroft all of a sudden remarked excitedly. He jumped from his chair, pushing it out of the way.

John felt the same pang of excitement and he wished he could be of any assistance to the doctors. It was odd to be so close to his flatmate but not able to help him in any way. This time he was confined to just being an observer. He tried to sit up even more in his bed, but his body disabused him of doing so. He fell back to his cushions reluctantly without averting his gaze from Sherlock.

"He's opening his eyes," he heard the older Holmes comment what Sherlock was doing.

John saw him leaning in on his younger brother.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," he said softly, giving his brother a genuine smile, however looking at one of the doctors questioningly a moment later.

"He's still very sleepy, Mr Holmes, don't worry that he's closed his eyes again. It looks very good so far. Of course we have to wait until he is fully responsive; however, there are no distinct abnormalities in the EEG so far. It really seems he had had a great stroke of luck."

Mycroft closed his eyes and wiped his face with his hands. He was apparently extremely relieved. However, his face displayed an entirely worn expression. It had been hard for him, leading a country and fearing for his brother's life.


	21. Sherlock's awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't manage to post a chapter yesterday. I'm extremely busy, so I didn't even manage to reply to your comments. Sorry - I'll make up for it.

The next couple of hours passed by without any major changes in the Consulting Detective's condition. He opened his eyes occasionally, but it seemed as if he was still quite disoriented. When the night nurse entered the ICU to check on her patients, John realised that he had slept most of the day and Mycroft had eventually also fallen asleep in the chair by his brother's bedside. He was slumped in it, his chin resting on his chest, the regular breathing signalling that he was in deep sleep. John had never seen Mycroft sleep, and, oddly enough, for some reason he had never assumed that the British Government _would_ sleep.

"We're letting him rest," the nurse whispered with a wink of her eye, smiling at John, "He must be very exhausted."

"He had been a bit touchy today," John whispered back huskily.

She came over to John's bed, and while checking the monitors and syringe pumps she kept whispering.

"You know, Dr Watson, the loved ones all react very differently here; some bawl and cry, others don't say anything at all, some even faint. But what happens to all of them, if there is any love left in them, is that they suddenly realise what they would miss if the person in the bed didn't survive – that can actually make you a little touchy. Unfortunately, some of them have to cope with a loss later, but any way, lives will never be the same after this here." With a sweeping gesture of her arm she indicated all the apparatus in the ICU.

John knew that she was right. Ending up in an ICU always meant that one's life had been in danger and he had experienced it before, after the shot in his shoulder. He had changed in many ways, had often thought about what the world would have been without him, if it had mattered to anyone. Back then the realisation that his death would only have affected very few people had been a bitter one. His world had changed, though, after he had met Sherlock. There were now a couple of people he cared for and who cared for him, not to forget there was a kind of mutual dependence between himself and his flatmate, which had come to the fore rather frequently lately.

A quiet moan could be heard from Sherlock's direction and Mycroft's head shot up. He looked around the room, confused, before regaining his bearings and observing his brother who kept moaning.

The nurse hurried to Sherlock and pushed a button on her bleeper that she had dug from her tunic. John knew that it would call the doctors to the ICU to once again check the vital signs and the brain function. Mycroft didn't avert his eyes from his brother and John wished he could just get up from his bed and walk over to his friend to do the examination himself. He had become quite used to being Sherlock's doctor that it felt rather odd to watch others do what he felt was his duty.

The nurse looked at the data on the monitors, frowning.

"You're a bit strained, Mr Holmes, aren't you? Shush, it's all fine," the nurse said to Sherlock in a voice that reminded John of a mother talking to her child. It wasn't too far-fetched, for they were in fact as helpless as children and needed someone to look after them.

"What's the matter?" Mycroft wanted to know. He still looked weary and the green protective clothing was creased, contrasting the usually flawless appearance of the older Holmes. However, nothing was usual about this situation and John had to admit to himself that most likely his doubts about Mycroft's honourable intentions towards his brother had indeed been unjustified. The man was just so aloof and always beamed an aura of mysteriousness that one involuntarily developed the impression that he wasn't entirely human and, therefore, was dangerous. Although John every once in a while even denied Sherlock's humanity when it came to matters of empathy, he had learned that apparently for both the Holmes, their often rude behaviour was in fact a kind of self-protection.

Only a minute after the nurse had called the specialists, the four men entered the room and surrounded Sherlock's bed. John couldn't see either Mycroft or Sherlock anymore. He knew, though, that he would become aware of what was going on, so he just waited and listened carefully when they spoke to Mycroft.

"It is nothing to worry about, Mr Holmes, it is just that when patients wake from a coma they often go through dreams that feel very real for them. We tried to suppress it, as we told you, but we can't control it entirely. It's a good sign, though, because we know he will be with us again soon. He will still be weak but maybe he'll keep his eyes open for a longer time than last time. We'll adjust his medication and then wait until he can communicate himself. Deborah will be at your side and call us if necessary."

So, Deborah was the nurse's name. John hadn't even wondered about it. He was a little surprised as to how little interest he had in finding out about who took care of them. He hadn't even wondered about the place they were in and for the first time John really looked around. Unlike the other hospital room Sherlock and John had found themselves in after the Tabun poisoning, this intensive care unit didn't differ so much from the ones John knew. The equipment was first-class, but there was nothing that gave a hint as to whether this was any of the British Government's secret hospitals or just a public one. To his left there were space and connections for another ICU bed, which had never been occupied during their stay, though, at least as far as John could remember. So, if it was a regular hospital, it had to be a rather small one with just three ICU beds. Experience, however, though involuntarily, told John that this had to be a special hospital as Mycroft would have taken care that Sherlock and, therefore also he, would get the best treatment. Since the British Government wouldn't be contented with average abilities, the staff working in their medical institutions would be of the highest calibre. He was distantly wondering if, again, there were any secret drugs or the like involved in their recovery, but in all honesty, he wasn't all too eager to find out. What the eye didn't see **...**

The doctors had left the room again and John focused his gaze on Mycroft who suddenly rose from his chair, leaning in on Sherlock as he had done upon his first awakening. Nurse Deborah joined him on the other side of the bed.

"There you are," Mycroft simply said.

When John heard a croak from Sherlock that was a clear attempt at speaking, he couldn't refrain from sitting up in his bed way too fast in order to get a proper glimpse of the Consulting Detective. Although he felt a sharp pain in his body, the urge to stand by his friend made it bearable. He desperately wanted to get up, but he knew that it wasn't a good idea. Patience had always been something he had expected his own patients to practise, but now he could sense the impossibility of it.

"Get me a wheelchair!" he exclaimed, causing both the nurse and Mycroft to look at him, their surprise clearly written on their faces.

"Dr Watson," she said with a voice that reminded him strongly of his primary school teacher when he had said something stupid. "Your body isn't ready to cope with such exhausting exercise like getting up from your bed. Forget it." She gave him a silly-boy smile.

John felt a flash of anger at her look. " _I_ know best what _my_ body is able to cope with, so _get me a wheelchair_!" he barked.

" _Doctor_ Watson, you know your medical record. I guess that your power of judgement is still a bit under the weather – blame it on the pain killers. I will _not_ let you get up!"

John ground his teeth. "For God's sake, yes, I know my record, but you don't know..."

"Stop it!" Mycroft interrupted them. He had alternatingly watched Sherlock, the nurse and John and was looking at his brother's flatmate and Deborah with an angry frown now.

"Don't you think that there's something more important at the moment?!" he ranted. "Isn't it better for my brother to be surrounded by the people who care about him – and who he cares about most?" he added, piercing the nurse with his gaze.

"Yes, I think so. That's why..." - "Exactly, Mycroft,..." John and Deborah replied simultaneously.

To John's great astonishment Mycroft cut them off in mid-sentence. "Well then, if Dr Watson thinks he can cope, get him a wheelchair." His face was blank and the look quite intimidating. It was incredible how Mycroft managed to suddenly put on his business-like mask and radiate the message that no contradiction would be tolerated.

Nurse Deborah hesitated, her mouth still open as if she was about to say something in return. After a moment of contemplation, she shook her head and turned to leave the ICU. John realised that he definitely wasn't in a public hospital as no nurse would have given in so quickly if not conscious that the person giving her the order was one of the most important people in Britain. The ex-army man looked at Mycroft curiously, but the latter was focused on scrutinizing his brother and didn't pay any attention to John. He was wondering whether the reason for the fact that Mycroft had just stepped in for him lay in the acknowledgment of the possibility that Sherlock would probably be more pleased to see his flatmate upon regaining consciousness rather than his own brother. It had to be a sad thing for a sibling to realise that they weren't as important as friends, but John thought that Sherlock and himself were quite alike in that aspect. Seeing Harry upon wakening would have evoked a strong urge in him to simply cut her out by closing his eyes again.

Another rasp could be heard, however still unintelligible. John knew that it had to be very hard for Sherlock to speak as he had been intubated and sedated for a longer time than he himself.

"Take your time, Sherlock, and take it easy." Hearing Mycroft speak in a soothing manner, felt like something John would never get used to. And yet, he felt a whiff of the relationship that Sherlock and his brother must have had in their youth.

A short time later Deborah entered the room, pushing a wheelchair, which she placed at John's bedside. She looked a bit irritated, but didn't say anything about it.

"Right, Dr Watson, I'll help you with the cables and tubes."

He smiled at her gratefully, but her response was slightly restrained and it crossed John's mind that she was most likely acting against her principles and professionalism, so he couldn't blame her; quite on the contrary, he generally appreciated nurses like her, but not now and not with him.

It was a painful realisation that he had overestimated his fitness a tad after he had finally taken seat in the wheelchair. He felt as if he would collapse in a minute, but tried not to show it. Mycroft's gaze, however, signalled him that it had to be visible. John was on the one hand surprised and on the other hand thankful that Sherlock's brother didn't comment on it and just furrowed his brow.

For the first time, John had a clear vision of Sherlock, which gave him a slight shock. The cables sticking out from his skull looked surreal on his friend. He had seen it before on other patients, but he had never even distantly felt the same uneasiness then. Sherlock opened his eyes occasionally, but from his perspective John couldn't see the man's whole face. It was only because Nurse Deborah had lowered the bed that he could see anything at all.

"Hi Sherlock," John managed to say when he was sure that his voice wouldn't betray him because of the exhaustion he felt and the lump that was forming in his throat at the sight of his friend.

Very slowly, the Consulting Detective turned his head just so that he could see John in the eye. He turned his head back towards Mycroft, which apparently cost him a lot of effort. John was a bit distressed as there had been something in his look that he couldn't interpret.

Once more Sherlock tried to speak. "Who... are...you?" he whispered barely audibly, his voice being hoarse and strange.

John and Mycroft exchanged a look of shock. It had been the lack of recognition that John had seen in Sherlock's glance...


	22. Amnesia

After the first flash of shock, John's medical knowledge kicked in and he calmed down a bit.

"Retrograde amnesia, Mycroft. It's quite common after a head trauma."

Mycroft was still staring at Sherlock, who was quiet but scanned the room and the people in it restlessly.

"I know, John, but that doesn't make it better, does it?" he said with a frown.

He turned his head when the doctors entered the ICU. The intensive care specialist gave John a strange look, something between appreciation and annoyance. The nurse had apparently talked to him when she had been away to fetch the wheelchair. John wondered if he would dare say anything, but he obviously knew better than to oppose against Mycroft and remained silent.

"Let's see, Mr Holmes," the neurologist addressed Sherlock, giving him a typical doctor-smile, which was friendly but didn't hold any personal concern.

Sherlock looked back at the doctor, and his face screwed up into a grimace that was also meant to be a smile – a typical Sherlock-smile, fake and mocking.

John snorted at the sight of it, feeling some relief about the fact that despite his amnesia, Sherlock was still involuntarily himself.

The doctor had apparently noticed the mockery in his patient's expression, too, as he looked slightly annoyed before putting on a less exaggerated smile.

"Well then, Mr Holmes let's see what has happened to your memory."

A number of questions mainly to be answered with "yes" or "no" followed; general questions like whether he knew which year it was, and more specific questions like his own name and the names of his mother and father. Sherlock was given different possibilities to make answering less strenuous. John and Mycroft watched silently, although John noticed that Sherlock's brother was restless and could hardly restrain himself from interrupting. John, too, had to suppress the urge to simply ask Sherlock, if he didn't know his flatmate and friend anymore. _It's me, John!_ he wanted to say, however knowing that there was absolutely no sense in doing so. Sherlock didn't remember.

During the course of the questioning, John's heart sank more and more. It _was_ retrograde amnesia Sherlock was suffering from, but a severe form of it. The Consulting Detective couldn't remember his entire life back to his early childhood days. He didn't know his own name, had only guessed from the times he had been addressed by the doctors, Mycroft or John; he couldn't recall his parents' names, simply couldn't remember _anything_. Mycroft's expression derailed with every question that was answered with a "no". The doctors were very careful, letting Sherlock pause whenever he needed to, however, after a couple of questions, the exhausted patient had to deliver his answer by tapping his finger once for a "no" and twice for a "yes".

At some point he didn't reply anymore as he had no longer been able to stay awake. Mycroft cast a glance at John, so openly displaying his feelings that the latter was taken aback. He saw sorrow and pain - and something else he couldn't really put his finger on. Regret?

"A word, Mr Holmes," the doctor addressed Mycroft and gestured in the direction of the anteroom. All but nurse Deborah left the room and John felt somewhat left behind, although he knew that he couldn't leave the ICU, nor was he entitled to be given any information on Sherlock's record directly from the doctors. He had to wait. Again.

John took a couple of deep breaths, fighting the overwhelming tiredness that befell him. As normal as amnesia was after a head trauma and a long-term sedation, the extent of it was really alarming. They could only hope that time would bring back some of the memories. John's felt his head drop on his chest and immediately jerked backwards. He needed to get back to bed and rest as he wasn't of any help to Sherlock if he didn't recover soon.

"Do you want me to put you to bed?" Deborah asked, having apparently forgiven him his insistence on getting up, giving him a sweet smile.

"In the literal sense of it, yes. Thank you," he replied with a rather weak grin.

"You do overestimate your physical state a bit, Dr Watson. Don't you?" she countered with a wink. John felt a little eased; flirting was a good remedy although he was absolutely aware of the crudity of his remark. The only thing he still noticed after he had been put to bed was a reassuring pat from Deborah.

The next time John woke up, Mycroft was again sitting at his brother's bedside, his gaze set on Sherlock, although he didn't really appear to see him. John wondered if it was just the effect of the artificial ICU light that made the older Holmes appear as pale as the younger one, or if he wasn't well. Maybe he also eventually needed some rest.

"Mycroft?" John tried.

The addressed man blinked a couple of times as if trying to focus.

"Yes, John," he replied with a monotone voice.

"What are they planning to do?"

Mycroft sighed, looking down at his hands before setting his eyes on John.

"Nothing. They'll remove the permanent EEG tomorrow, have him sedated for another forty-eight hours after the operation and then wait to see what will happen. So, nothing in particular."

The desperation in Mycroft's voice was clearly audible. John sensed that it had to be terrible for the older Holmes to be confined to doing nothing for yet another time.

"Waiting. Yes, I guess that's mainly what you can do. Mycroft, if you ask me, we have to get home to Baker Street as soon as possible. Familiar surroundings will help him to remember."

"Shouldn't it be _our_ home then? The home where he had spent most of his life?" Every now and then the usual cold Mycroft Holmes could be glimpsed at the surface, his comments snide and unexpected and yet true. It hadn't even crossed John's mind that Sherlock had had a home other than 221b Baker Street - at least none that he would call home with any affection. All the times Sherlock had spoken about his family home, it hadn't been all too positive, thus, John had assumed that home was where he was living now – the cosy chaos of their flat.

"Don't you think that it would probably be too much of a shock, huh?" John returned the question with his eyebrows raised, refuting the sting of the query, however, with a slight smirk.

"I will not stay in your ...cave at Baker Street. And you, John, won't be able to take care of Sherlock for a while as you have to recover yourself. Therefore, no!"

Damn it! Mycroft was right. This time his leg and, admittedly, general health status prevented that he could function as Sherlock's doctor and nurse. Stupid bloody leg! John was angry and he clenched his fists in order to not yell from frustration.

"We'll see!" he hissed between gritted teeth.

Mycroft shook his head. "There's nothing to see, John, just the facts, I'm afraid." He locked eyes with John and with a sincere tone in his voice added, "I really am." He then stood up from his chair, straightened his back and left the ICU.

John felt his heart pounding with rage. It wasn't Mycroft's fault, he was aware of it, but that didn't make it less vexatious. He growled and looked at Sherlock, only to find him staring at him. Although it was Sherlock, he seemed to be a stranger with the cables and the eyes that didn't reflect any recognition.

"Sherlock, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." John remarked sheepishly.

"You didn't. Who are you?" he croaked straight up, although his voice was a little firmer than before.

John felt that this was a crucial moment and he had to choose his words very carefully, but the truth was simple.

"I'm... your flatmate, colleague and ... friend."

Sherlock still looked at him intently.

"Given you are my flatmate – why are you here? Why am I here? I mean, the two of us at the same time? Who am I?"

"Right... good questions. How much time do we have? I guess we're not in a hurry; it may take a while to explain it to you."

"Take your time, ... John, isn't it?"

For a split-second John thought Sherlock remembered, but with some disappointment he recalled having been addressed by his first name while Sherlock had been awake.

"Yes, John, that's me. John Watson. Do you want to have my mobile so you can refresh your deductions on me?"

Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Sorry, mate, it's just a bit... extraordinary,... this situation." John smiled apologetically. He felt slightly uncomfortable. "Ok, you want to know everything that I know about you? You may not like it entirely, so don't get pissed off. I won't be cheating."

"Fine."

John frowned. He had never personally experienced anybody with global retrograde amnesia and it was just odd to know a good deal about someone without the person himself having the faintest clue about himself. John felt awkward. He could very well recall when he had lectured Sherlock on his use of the word "fine", but he realised now that all his memories of their time together weren't shared memories any longer but just his own.

He would tell his friend everything he wanted to know, however, he was very well aware of the fact that what he could give away from their lives would always be biased, seen from only his point of view. He knew, though, that Sherlock's angle of seeing and judging things sometimes differed a lot from his own. Nevertheless, he had to try. Maybe talking about Sherlock's life would trigger the memories to come back.

So John talked and told Sherlock about the life they had spent together. He talked about their first encounter at the lab, their experiences during the cases, their rants, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and so on and so forth. He tried to spice his stories with what had been particularly typical of Sherlock. However, he avoided talking about Mycroft's role in their lives and the latest incidents as it would have been incredibly difficult to explain all that. It could wait a little longer.

The man in the other ICU bed listened mostly without interrupting. Only when John told him about their experiences at the museum where Sherlock had almost lost the sick game against Moriarty due to his ignorance about the solar system, did he interfere.

"How can one not know that?" he questioned his bed neighbour.

The words got stuck in John's throat. "How can one not know that? Sherlock?!" he almost yelled. "That was precisely my question back then! Don't tell me now that you know about the solar system..."

"Everyone knows that the Earth goes around the Sun, the Moon around the Earth, that the planets closer to the sun are Venus and Mercury,..."

"Okay, okay, but how can you suddenly know about the solar system, which you were absolutely ignorant about a couple of months ago, but don't have a clue about your whole life?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Hmmm, no idea," he responded thoughtfully. "Have I really been that oblivious?"

"Erm, well, yes. Sometimes. It really depends. You weren't oblivious when it came to cigarette ash."

"Cigarette ash - I'm a freak, aren't I? At least that's what I get from what you tell me." He snorted contemptuously. John could only remotely imagine what it had to be like for Sherlock. If he were just Joe Bloggs, ordinary in every way, it would be much easier for him to understand, but he was Sherlock Holmes, the super sleuth, the genius brain, slightly Asperger.

"Sherlock, ...listen, when I met you first I thought you were a freak, but you proved me wrong very soon. You are... you."

"My brother is a freak, too, isn't he?"

"Hah, your brother? I have to admit that I don't know for sure. He's an enigma, that's more or less everything I know about him."

"Who's an enigma?"

Mycroft was standing by the door with his arms folded, the all too familiar fake smile on his face. John knew right away that he knew exactly who they were talking about.

"He says you are," Sherlock told his brother and John squirmed uncomfortably, although it wasn't a secret what he thought about the older Holmes. Mycroft's fake smile broadened, which actually looked more as if he was baring his teeth rather than making a friendly face.

"It may sometimes appear so. This, however, owes much to my profession."

"Three-piece suit under that ridiculous gown, hand-made shoes, polished to perfection, but not by you, your hands are perfectly manicured and have most likely not even touched a shoe brush in years. No pets, none at least that would show their affection by roving around your legs. No wife or other partner - you would have brought them already. Very busy then. Language and posture stilted – posh background but also necessity. Used to giving orders and to being instantly obeyed – government, but not just any random civil servant. Something more important, much more important..."

Sherlock had suddenly and despite his croaky voice rattled down a deduction on his brother. He was, however, apparently as stunned about it as were John and Mycroft.

After a moment's silence, John added, "Ta-dah: The government himself." He threw a glimpse at Mycroft who stood at the same spot as before, paralysed.

"The government," Sherlock repeated flatly. He then frowned. "What _was_ that?"

His brother woke from his paralysis. "That was one of your infamous deductions, Sherlock. John, what did you tell him about me?"

"Um, nothing, I really didn't tell him anything about your profession. How could I anyway? I know nothing about it myself. - Sherlock, do you remember anything?"

Sherlock looked a little confused and shook his head. "It was just... there. Again," he said slightly pathetically. "I see. So that's what you meant when you said that I "read" people."

"Yeah." confirmed John, still baffled.

"And you say I'm quite good at it."

"Unsurpassable, I'd say."

"Do I do it often?"

"Not a single minute that you _don't_ do it! It can be quite annoying."

"So how is it that I'm a sleuth but don't work for the government as well?"

Mycroft, who had so far just listened, laughed out loud. "That, brother dear, is a question that no one has ever been able to answer, not even you yourself. Although, I assume the reason for it lies in the fact that _I_ work for the government."

"Oh! So, we don't get along very well. I thought so..." Sherlock's sentence trailed off.

Mycroft's face went blank and he changed the topic. "I came to let you know that I have arranged for the two of you to stay at my house as soon as your health condition allows it. There will be staff to look after you and take care of your treatment and physiotherapy."

"Mycroft!" John exclaimed. "I really don't want to be ungrateful, but we have already talked about this! I don't think it's a good idea and I won't go!"

Sherlock's brother had already turned half away and gave him a patronizing look over his shoulder. "Well, then, John. Tell me, in the first place, how you think you'll manage to get up the fifteen or so stairs to your flat!"

"Seventeen," Sherlock and John said in unison.

"How did you know?" John and Mycroft yelled at the same time, and for a moment it was dead quiet and the two men simply stared at Sherlock.

"Don't ask – I don't know!" Sherlock said defensively. "This ... feels like vomiting! I don't want it, I can't suppress it, it just pours out of my mouth!"

"Nice metaphor, Sherlock," John commented with a grin. It was, however, very promising that there were these fragments of memories. Maybe Mycroft wasn't that wrong at all to take Sherlock to his family home. It _could_ help.

The door to the ICU had already opened when John called Mycroft. "Thanks for the offer. I'm looking forward to getting to know your family home."

Mycroft stood for a second, but didn't turn around. He nodded briefly and left.

"Interesting." Sherlock remarked before inhaling sharply. "John, what brought us here?" he asked sincerely, watching the hand with the IV cannula before gingerly touching the EEG cables on his head.

"You were shot on a case and I was run over by a car. That must do for the time being."

"That's unsatisfying." Sherlock complained, stifling a yawn.

"I know, Sherlock, I know, but a life like yours isn't told in an hour. It's quite a long story, actually, why we are here, and there are still very many gaps in it. I can't remember everything myself, so you have to be contented with this little information."

"You are afraid."

"No!"

"Your voice is betraying you, John. What is it then?"

John was very uncomfortable. Was he really afraid? Of what? He realised that Sherlock had voiced what had been swirling in his subconscious: he was indeed afraid, afraid of an uncontrolled return of Sherlock's memories. Something had happened to Sherlock's mind palace. He had told him that he had once deleted his knowledge about the solar system, considering it simply unimportant, but he remembered now. So, apparently what had been banned to the depth of his subconscious was now re-emerging. John felt a pang of worry. Was there a literal crack in his friend's mind palace? He wasn't all that sure about his decision to agree to Mycroft's offer anymore, but he knew that he didn't have any other possibility if he wanted to stay with his friend.

"You're right, I guess," John said quietly, but didn't get any response. Sherlock had fallen asleep again.


	23. Setting the terms

The next morning Sherlock was prepared for the removal of the permanent EEG by the administration of a sedative almost immediately after waking up, which meant that John couldn't talk to him again properly. The very slurred "See you later, John." sent a shiver down his spine. To put it mildly, John was terrified. Despite his friend's amnesia, he had been so very glad that Sherlock was alive and out of danger. Another operation meant yet another risk. So many things could go wrong, and John would rather have preferred to not be a medical man as ignorance and obliviousness could sometimes be helpful when trying to calm down in a situation like this.

John was still quite easily exhausted and slept a lot, but now that he desperately wanted to drift into unconsciousness just to pass the time, he couldn't get a wink of sleep. If it hadn't been for the bloody leg, he would have got up and paced the room. There was no television in the intensive care unit and reading was too exhausting, so John simply stared at the ceiling, waiting for the hours to pass by and Sherlock to return.

"Would you like somebody to visit you for a distraction?"

John started. He had been entirely absent-minded, therefore hadn't noticed Mycroft's arrival in the room.

"What? No. – No, thanks."

"Mrs Hudson and Ms Hooper keep calling me, asking for permission to pay you a visit."

"That's lovely of them, but... not now."

"Waiting is ...obnoxious, isn't it?" Mycroft stood in the door, apparently indecisive whether to stay or leave.

"I'm quite fed up with it, admittedly. - Sit down, Mycroft, you're making me nervous – more nervous to be precise."

Sherlock's brother raised an eyebrow at the command, but took a seat in the chair by the wall on the other side of the room, crossing his legs and looking at the man in the bed intently, however, without saying anything.

"He'll be fine," John remarked when he felt that the silence had become a little awkward and on a sudden impulse to say something of a soothing nature, although he wasn't fully convinced of it himself.

"Yes," Mycroft said plainly without taking his eyes off the ex-army doctor.

"I'm afraid, Mycroft." John hadn't intended to say anything about it, particularly not to Mycroft, it had just slipped off his tongue and he sighed, irritated.

Mycroft's eyebrow shot up before he lowered his gaze, resigned. "John, you know that I'm not a man of sentiment; and yet, I have to concede that the effect all this has on me is quite... unsettling."

"You may have tried to pull the wool over my eyes, Mycroft, but I have seen too much and I know you aren't the iceman you keep pretending to be."

"I'm not the one who didn't believe me when I said I cared about Sherlock. Remember, John?"

"Yes, ... yes, I do. But..."

"Tell me this, when you were in Afghanistan, how did you manage to cope with what you saw?"

"I didn't – and you know that, Mycroft!"

"Oh, you mean what you call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You know my opinion, John."

John shook his head in annoyance, snorting disbelievingly. "It's simply impossible to have a normal talk with you!"

"Again, it wasn't me who started this talk."

"You are a...!"

Mycroft grinned, fanning the flames of rage in John. "Let it out, John. We will soon be spending some time together, thus I think it is essential to eliminate any lack of clarity."

John stared at Sherlock's brother. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"As far as Sherlock's well-being is concerned, no," he replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands on his lap. "What I wanted to say is that one develops strategies to survive."

John clenched his fists and gritted his teeth to overcome the fury he felt inside. A little more collected he said, "I don't think it's a good idea to stay at your house Mycroft. No – let me explain!" The older Holmes had leaned forward and had wanted to interrupt John, but shut his mouth again, signalling Sherlock's flatmate with a wave of his hand to go on talking.

"You know I have no real idea as to how the mind palace thing works, but from what Sherlock says – remembers – I have a feeling that something is wrong with the way the information is stored or brought to the surface. He talks about things he didn't have the faintest idea about before the shot. Things he had deliberately deleted from his memories. And all of a sudden they are there. I'm not sure if that's a good sign."

"I generally share your worries, but the specialists say that there is nothing visible on the EEG or on the MRI, so there's nothing to worry about."

"I assume, though, that your specialists have also told you that global retrograde amnesia can rather be a problem of the psyche than of physical damage."

Mycroft hesitated for a split-second. "We'll have to wait, John. Rest assured that I have already taken steps to help Sherlock." John perceived a faint aura of anxiety in Mycroft's body language and he was convinced that the man was hiding something from him.

"Oh, you have? What steps?" John enquired.

"Finding the man who helped Sherlock create his mind palace."

"Your friend – Tobias whoever it is, right?"

"Correct. If there is anything wrong with Sherlock's mind palace, he will be the one possessing the ability to help him repair it."

"I really hope you're right! Aren't you at all worried that these re-emerging memories could be a... bad... sign?"

Again, Mycroft hesitated before answering. "I don't think so. As I said, there is nothing to worry about."

John didn't believe him, but sensed that further probing wouldn't lead anywhere. "Apart from that, have you found out anything about the driver or the connection of the body to the Tabun?"

Mycroft got up from his chair and started pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back and his leather soles clicking a muffled rhythm on the PVC-floor of the ICU.

"Nothing we could definitely work with to catch the one pulling the strings. The driver was just a stooge, a nobody, slow-witted, with a tendency towards domestic violence. According to military records he was unstable, therefore rejected by the army, but without any discernible connection to my brother. We're still investigating."

"With all the means you have at your disposal – that's all you have so far?" John asked disbelievingly. He had assumed that the personified British government would be able to solve the case within hours or days at the most, and now disappointment about the fact that even Mycroft hadn't been able to find any further clues spread inside him. However, the traces of agitation told him that Mycroft was hiding something from him; maybe he knew more than he was willing to divulge. John scrutinized Sherlock's brother, who had stopped pacing and was leaning against the wall by the entrance of the ICU, one of the rare spaces in the room where leaning on it was at all possible. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds before Mycroft shrugged.

"Although it may sometimes be your greatest wish and at the same time what you would hate about me the most, to my greatest regret, I am not almighty."

"No,... I see, but you are also not entirely sincere."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, then smiled humourlessly.

"And my brother's ability to read people has apparently slightly rubbed off on you. I am slightly surprised, however, to what extent I have been, if you want to express it thus, wearing my heart on my sleeve lately."

"Oh, so, you admit it. What is it then?"

"I fear, dear John, that that's none of your business," he replied coldly, leaving no doubt about the termination of the topic.

John was fuming. "You were the one telling me that we needed to get things straight before... moving in with you!"

"Yes, I recall having said it. And yet, there are limits that you have to accept."

"I see," John hissed, "you set the terms."

"It's my house," Mycroft stated, slightly tilting his head and producing another of his smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, before straightening his neck and raising his chin, thereby radiating his superiority.

John was entirely fed up with the Holmes' secretiveness. Throughout all that had happened recently, he had had the feeling that they had finally joined in a common course; and yet, Mycroft's rather arbitrary waves of concealment raised doubts in the ex-army doctor. The prospect of staying at the Holmes mansion and being under Mycroft's control made John squirm with discomfort and a feeling of uneasiness. As soon as he was able to climb stairs, they would return to Baker Street. Recovery went better in places where one felt home.

As every talk with Mycroft seemed destined to end in a skirmish, John decided that it was better to go back to staring at the wall rather than raising his blood pressure. Apparently, Mycroft didn't object to it as well as he took his seat by the wall again, folded his hands in his lap and stared at nothing in particular. God knew what he was thinking about.

After some time the hissing sound of the opening ICU door could be heard and Sherlock's bed was rolled in. Mycroft literally jumped from his chair and John sat up in his bed as quickly as possible. The doctors told the two waiting men that everything had gone well and that the induced coma would only help the healing.

Sherlock looked again pitiful with yet another intubation and the white dressing on his head, under which some of his dark curls peeped out. It was a bit odd, though, that they hadn't shaved his head entirely. John had to smile involuntarily when the image of a bald-headed Sherlock and his reaction to it crossed his mind. He would have been furious. As much as the Consulting Detective loathed such banalities as going to the hair-dressers, which was definitely below zero on his scale of necessity to leave the house, leading to his hair length being rather long, he was still somewhat vain of his black curls. Who knew, maybe the nurse preparing Sherlock for the first operation had fallen in love with the unruly dark mess – or he would wake up having a tonsure. John couldn't withhold a laugh and in response was being glared daggers at by Mycroft. Aware of the indecency, he mumbled a repentant "Sorry," but had to bite his lips to stay serious.

All of a sudden John painfully realised that he would be missing the banter and jokes between him and Sherlock that were mostly at each other's or somebody else's expense, however, were based on their true friendship. For the time being he was a stranger to Sherlock, as everyone else was. It would be a long road ahead...


	24. At the Holmes Mansion

Sherlock was standing in the hall of the Holmes mansion, hands buried in his coat pockets, his eyes exploring every corner of the large room, however, there was no sign of recognition visible on his face. John was leaning heavily on his crutches, exhausted from the journey and slightly overwhelmed by his first impression of the manor.

The last days in hospital had gone by rather uneventfully, or as uneventfully as one could say in viewof the circumstances. Contrary to John's fears, everything had gone well with Sherlock. The awakening had been a moment of hope for the Consulting Detective's memories to return, but to everyone's regret nothing had changed and Sherlock still couldn't recall anything. As soon as he had been able to speak properly **,** he had questioned John about his life, his habits, his family and friends, about everything that one would want to know about oneself.

John had tried to answer the questions in as detailed and truthful a manner as possible, however, he had realised that he knew very little about his friend's youth and pre-Baker-Street life. When he had told Sherlock about his peculiarities, he had been rewarded with an occasional laugh or frown. It had been good, on the one hand, to see Sherlock smile or laugh, but, on the other hand it turned John's heart over to see his friend estranged from him. The older man felt that Sherlock had instinctively trusted him, but he missed his "old" companion with all his rudeness and flaws.

The ex-army doctor was still worried about the Consulting Detective's mind palace as every now and then he surprised John and himself with small pieces of knowledge that John knew he had definitely deleted some time ago.

In order not to be confined to a wheel-chair during their stay at the Holmes mansion, John had mustered all his will-power and had forced himself - and his physiotherapist – to get started with the walking training and to grin and bear the pain every step had caused him. It had been like an explosion in his leg first, but had slowly subsided to a rather dull pain with some occasional peaks. John simply hadn't wanted to be completely helpless under Mycroft's custody; moreover, being able to stand on his feet was much of an improvement to his self-confidence and ease.

Only three days after Sherlock had woken from the second induced coma, he had insisted on getting up. However, when he had tried to stand upright for the first time with the help of a nurse, which he had accepted rather reluctantly, he was swaying like a blade of grass in the wind and his hands shot up to his head, pressing his palms against the temples as if to prevent his skull from bursting, and he had had to sit down again instantly. Paradoxically, the lack of memories hadn't obviously done anything to change his stubbornness as he had been his usual selfduring the tough negotiations about the extent of help he would need. He had grumbled and growled and hadn't wanted to accept that he simply needed some more time. After two more attempts, Sherlock had finally stood on shaky legs. John hadn't been able to suppress a grin at the sight of the World's only Consulting Detective, his skinny legs poking outfrom under the hospital gown, and yet a somehow proud expression on his face, which transmuted in an instant into an irritated frown over his roommate's reaction.

They had spent the next couple of days "exercising", most of the times falling into a deep exhausted sleep right afterwards. Both John and Sherlock had wanted to escape the depressing atmosphere of the clinic room. The ex-army man had in fact never really disliked hospitals to such a degree before, presumably due to the fact that he had never been personally involved so much. It was one thing to be a doctor and regard the hospital as your work place; it was an entirely different thing to be a patient or to be in the position of worrying about a patient.

While in hospital, John had witnessed a few moments of strong uneasiness, if not fear, in Sherlock's body language and upon questioning him about it, he had only received vague answers. Of course, they hadn't spoken about Sherlock's abhorrence of hospitals since John wouldn't have been able to explain it anyway, but again he discerned that it had to be not just any quirk of Sherlock's but something deeply-felt, emerging even without any memories of earlier clinic stays.

When the doctors, after sheer endless examinations, had found it tenable to release Sherlock and John, they had lectured them on various dos and don'ts in order not to jeopardise the healing process, which had been completely unnecessary because of Mycroft's meticulous precautions. They were accompanied by a doctor who was supposed to remain in the background, and yet to keep a careful eye on the two men; plus, it had been arranged for Molly Hooper to pay them a visit. Mrs Hudson had been invited as well, but her sister hadn't been well, so she had had to call her visit off with a heavy heart. She had been quite upset and only a talk with John on the phone could convince her to leave for her sister's. John thought it would be better anyway as it would probably be too much for her if Sherlock didn't recognise her. She was, after all, no spring chicken anymore.

Sherlock had remained silent all the time while Mycroft had informed them about his arrangements and it became obvious that he felt quite insecure as he was fumbling around with the small magnifying glass that he had found in his coat pocket, frowning.

Mycroft had brought them clothes from home **:** a suit and matching shirt for Sherlock, and a pullover and track-suit trousers for John, who wouldn't fit into any normal trousers with his broken leg and the metal apparatus. Sherlock hadn't shown any surprise about the high-quality tailor-made suit and shirt and had just got dressed without any comment, albeit rather slowly.

Sherlock's apparent discomfort had only occurred later when decisions had been made over his head and he had had nothing to say to it. 'No wonder', John had thought; he would be spending the next weeks in an unfamiliar place surrounded by utter strangers and everyone would be expecting him to remember the people and the place. He could imagine that it had to be a frightening feeling his flatmate was experiencing. There they were now, standing in the quite impressive and somehow intimidating hall of the Holmes mansion. On the left hand wall, there was a massive dark mahogany staircase winding up to a gallery on the first floor, its posts carved and turned **.** They were standing on parquet flooring of a lighter shade of brown a step away from a huge woollen Persian rug in mainly red and bluish colours. To their left and right **,** there were double swing doors as well as a single door on each side and another one under the staircase. The hall was furnished with heavy wooden chairs that would have complemented a king's throne and the same king's army in armour – or rather only the metal pieces, being nonetheless imposing. A gigantic chandelier was hanging from the wooden ceiling, its crystal elements reflecting the light in myriads of sparks around the upper part of the wall. John didn't know too much about architecture and arts, but from what he knew, the chandelier couldn't be as old as many of the other pieces of furniture in the hall, which were, most likely, medieval. Someone of the Holmes family had to have had a liking for pompous light. John was stunned by the splendour of the entrance and it seemed as if Sherlock was also slightly stunned, although John didn't have the impression that his friend was particularly fond of what he saw.

John wondered what the other rooms looked like. At first sight, it didn't seem likely that he would encounter any unusually modern fittings and furnishings anywhere in this house, and yet he suspected that such rooms as the bathrooms and kitchen would only be old-fashioned – or rather classic – in style, most certainly not in age.

All of a sudden, Sherlock turned left and walked towards the single door, whose leaf appeared as if it was weighing a ton, massive and dark and rather uninviting.

"The master of the house will be in the library, I assume," he stated plainly.

John almost dropped his crutches, and could only pull himself together a split-second before **,** instead, his jaw dropped. Sherlock had almost reached the door.

"How do you know?!" he asked, completely baffled.

"Most mansions' libraries are on the left side of the entrance hall, because of the general orientation to the directions of the entire house and, therefore, the incidence of light in the library that allowed reading later in the afternoons or evenings in times of merely candle light, therefore, it's west-oriented. My... brother isn't here yet, but told us that he would await and receive us here, the butler left through the door under the staircase, most likely in the direction of the kitchen and servants' rooms only to call my brother in the library – I heard a faint sound of ringing. Why call him and not knock on the door? Hmm, most likely safety precautions, if government issues were top secret – servants do have their eyes and ears everywhere. Don't ask. No, I don't remember and it's nothing miraculous, John."

The stunned man looked down at the carpet, shaking his head.

"Tss..., Sherlock, you're incredible. How could you possibly know that?"

"I didn't know – apart from the general knowledge – I observed."

"Oh, yeah! I forgot. Sounds quite familiar, Sherlock," the doctor muttered.

The Consulting Detective looked at him with a frown. "Does it though?" he wanted to know.

"It's more or less the first thing I got to know about you – that you observe. – Sherlock, you may have lost your memories about who you and we are, but you are still pretty much yourself, as far as I can tell. It seems as if you can't recall only what concerns your personal experiences. Your general knowledge seems to be unaffected."

"And still, it's a bit... distressing not to know who you are," Sherlock remarked already slightly absent-mindedly, eyeing the door. "I wonder why he lets us stand around here for ages. He should have awaited us here."

"We've only just arrived **,** so keep calm. He might be busy –or it's tactics." John mumbled the last bit to himself. He suspected that Mycroft could indeed have waited to let Sherlock take in the first impressions of his former home in the hope that it might trigger his memories to come back.

Suddenly, the door to the supposed library flung open and John caught a glimpse of the imposing old-fashioned room stuffed to the high stucco ceiling with books. His view fell on a dark, shiny carved desk on which a disturbingly modern laptop was sitting. Mycroft almost bumped into his brother, stopping short just in time. The two men faced each other for a brief moment with slightly predatory glances, before Mycroft's expression changed to a smile.

"Welcome home, Sherlock. John. I suggest sitting down in the living-room and having a cup of tea. You need to rest. Make yourselves at home." He was gesturing in the direction of the double-winged door, walking past Sherlock and entering the room first. The younger Holmes stared after Mycroft for a short while before following him, John limping behind the two. He was grateful to be able to sit down. The journey had been more strenuous than he had imagined sitting in a very comfortable limousine and being driven to the countryside could be. Sherlock had to have felt the same way as from time to time he had screwed up his eyes, his complexion slowly turning from pale to chalk-white.

Upon entering the living-room, John was surprised byits brightness. The French lattice windows were decorated with heavy cream-coloured curtains matching the sofas and armchairs in the room. The other pieces of furniture in the room originated from different centuries, some being rather massive and medieval-looking, others more delicate and embellished. John suspected them to be genuine Hepplewhites. The colossal silken carpet reflected the light in beautiful pastel-colours. On the left hand side there was a fireplace with a richly decorated white mantelpiece with some family photographs in silver frames on it. John was curious if there were any pictures of young Sherlock and his family.

On the opposite side, attached to the living-room, there was the dining room, furnished with the same kind of heavy medieval chairs and table as in the hall. A knight's armour was standing in the two corners of the room that John could see from his angle, as if guarding the guests at the table. Although a crackling warm fire was burning in the fireplace, John felt slightly chilly and intimidated. This had nothing to do with the cosy narrowness of 221B that, despite its often rather messy state, offered a certain security and privacy that John was missing in the atmosphere of the Holmes mansion. He could imagine that it had to be fun for a child to play knights in this house on a visit or on holidays, but children didn't need adventures all the time and growing up in the reminders of ancient times didn't really fill the ex-army man with pleasure.

After their refreshment with tea and sandwiches, which were served by a butler, they were shown their guest-rooms. John gained a vague idea as to why it was entirely natural for Sherlock to leave John to prepare tea or dinner most of the times, being used to being provided with such things by a servant.

The room he was allocated to was as luxuriously old-fashioned as what he had seen of the house so far. However, the en-suite bathroom was expectedly modern and yet classical with golden taps. The Jacuzzi he found behind a partition wall, however, surprised him and he cursed the injured leg that wouldn't allow him to use it. Being a guest in the Holmes home wasn't too bad after all and John sensed that money wasn't a big issue here.

Before he could finally rest, there was another examination by the doctor, whom they hadn't seen upon their arrival. John was already on the verge of sleep when the man left the room, satisfied with what he had found.

* * *

 

During the next couple of days, Sherlock and John spent most of the day either in their rooms, resting, or sitting in the extraordinary library by its fireplace, reading, talking just a little, or simply doing nothing but staring into the dancing flames, watching the fascinating colours of a birch fire. However, from day to day, John noticed an increasing restlessness in Sherlock. As soon as the sutures were removed from his flatmate's scalp, and there was no need for the dressing anymore, he shook his hair free, apparently regretting it instantly as he screwed up his face and slumped in his chair. Although he wouldn't actually admit it **,** he still had a nasty headache. He immediately inspected his head in a mirror and was obviously pleased that the remaining hair covered the bald spots quite successfully.

The two men didn't see Mycroft very often. There was always one meal that they took together, but there was hardly any of those that wasn't interrupted by the British Government's phone ringing, calling him to urgent business.

One afternoon, Molly paid the two men a visit. Being entirely overwhelmed by the size and splendour of the mansion, she appeared even shyer and more confused than normal.

When she entered the living-room, where a short briefing of Sherlock as to who Molly was had just taken place, she only managed a thin, "Hi."

John gestured her to come over to the sofa. As he had rested his leg on a cushion on a stool, he remained seated. Sherlock got up, adjusting his blazer and closing the button in a seemingly innate movement.

"Hello, ... Molly. Nice to meet you – to see you, I mean."

The pathologist gave Sherlock an insecure smile that was rather more of a grimace than it was supposed to be. It was, undeniably, a spectacle to see a polite and hospitable Sherlock, leading her to the armchair opposite where he had been sitting before and offering her tea.

John grinned.

Molly took the fine porcelain cup filled with steaming milky tea from Sherlock and took a sip, which burnt her mouth.

"Shit," she sputtered before she was able to monitor her language. "Uuh, sorry. I..."

Sherlock looked at her with some curiosity, as if he couldn't really believe what John had told him about Molly - her professionalism, her remarkable ability to put up with the occasionally most annoying man John had ever known and her braveness during the time they had been in the coma (some facts of which he only knew from what Nurse Deborah had told him). Her outburst seemed to disturb the image John had painted a tad. Apart from furrowing his brow, however, he didn't show any reaction to it and just went on with an attempt small-talk, which appeared so odd to John that he couldn't withhold a humorous grunt.

Both Sherlock and Molly stared at him, the younger Holmes rather evilly. John could read in Molly's eyes, however, that she was as baffled about the usually unfriendly man's behaviour as John himself was.

"Your lipstick quite matches the colour of your shirt. Suits you well," Sherlock complimented her **,** and both John and Molly burst into laughter about the ridiculousness of the situation. Sherlock was entirely puzzled and getting rather annoyed by then.

"Children!" he muttered, dropping into the sofa and pulling his knees up to his chin in a huff, ignoring his shoes on the cream fabric.

After the two laughing people had calmed down a bit, they filled Sherlock in about the reasons for their amusement. They told him about the Christmas drink that they had once had and where Sherlock had utterly humiliated Molly by making comments about her lipstick. It was good to see, though, that even Molly could laugh about it today **,** as Sherlock's humiliation had spoiled her Christmas that year. He didn't actually join in their amusement, but frowned and John apologised to him, sensing that it wasn't funny at all to be laughed at when you didn't have the faintest idea why exactly you were making a fool of yourself.

Within an hour things settled a bit and they spent a rather pleasurable afternoon together, recalling anecdotes about Sherlock and Molly's work in the morgue and the laboratory, however avoiding more really awkward situations. It would be soon enough that Sherlock would remember them and resume his old behaviour towards the pathologist.

When the sun was already setting, Mycroft suddenly stood in the doorway, watching Molly and John chatter and laugh and Sherlock listen and at least smile.

"Good afternoon," he announced, causing everybody to quiet down and look at him.

The older Holmes put a smile on his face and approached Molly, who had got up from her armchair, smiling at Mycroft. To John's surprise **,** she didn't appear insecure this time.

"Hello Mycroft. Nice to see you again."

John stared at the two, who were now standing opposite each other, exchanging genuine smiles and a handshake that was crowned with a hint of a kiss on the hand by Mycroft.

"It's my pleasure," he purred.

John almost choked on the cookie that he had just bitten into and Sherlock looked at him quizzically. Of course, Sherlock didn't know how odd the situation was. Had John not known about the crush Molly had on Sherlock, he would have had the impression that the two were flirting with each other. He did choke on the crumbs of his biscuit when Mycroft invited Molly to stay for dinner, which, unfortunately, she had to decline due to other duties.

After Molly had left, Sherlock excused himself quite soon, skipping dinner; and although it had been a very interesting and entertaining afternoon, John longed for his bed, too.

Despite his restlessness, Sherlock became increasingly quiet during the next few days, which John observed with growing worry. One beautiful sunny afternoon he asked Sherlock to go for a walk in the mansion's grounds.

The Consulting Detective threw an I-know-exactly-what -you-want-to-talk-about glance at John, but simply shrugged and left for the garden.

"Thanks for waiting," John muttered and followed his friend, carefully putting some weight on his injured leg while walking, supporting himself on the crutches. He caught up with the thoughtful man on the patio, where Sherlock was waiting, exposing his face to the warm spring sunshine.

"You want a tan?" John asked cheerfully.

Sherlock answered with a questioning frown.

"I gather, I'm not actually the usually nut-brown golf player type of man, aren't I? Although, technically, I know how to play golf."

"Haha, no, not really. The darkest tan I have ever seen on you was more of a light cream colour. Usually, people would rather suspect you sleep in a coffin and only come out at night." John joked. Suddenly, an idea struck him. "You technically know how to play golf. Do you also technically know how to play the violin?"

"Hmm, yes, I think so. You pull the strings that begin to vibrate and, depending on the frequency and amplitude of the sound waves, you hear different tones and volumes. Need more? - What are you aiming at, John?"

They hadn't talked about the violin so far. "I don't mean that technically. You do play the violin, Sherlock. According to you, it helps you think. I was wondering..."

"... whether I can still play it and whether it might help bring my memories back." Sherlock finished the sentence, raising his eyebrows.

"I guess that wasn't a difficult leap. Yes, exactly. We could have Mycroft get your violin," John suggested, glad to have come up with something that could probably distract his friend from pondering too much.

"Thank you, John, but..." The sentence trailed off.

"What is it?" he probed, his worries suddenly fanned.

"I'd rather we went home. As much as I haven't got the faintest idea of what "our home" is, I long to go there. This... this here doesn't feel like home at all. It's making me... nervous."

John's eyebrows shot up. So, it hadn't been a misperception that Sherlock felt ill at ease in the Holmes mansion - as did he himself.

"We have to talk to Mycroft." he replied, on the one hand relieved that Sherlock had confirmed what he had sensed before, on the other hand concerned about the practical side of returning to Baker Street.

When they talked to Mycroft about it at dinner, the older Holmes wasn't pleased about it, but apparently, his brother's welfare was more important to him this time than insisting on his standpoint. And eventually, three days and myriads of precautions taken later, a black limousine drove them back to London.

 

 


	25. Back at 221B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, but life is currently a bit mad, so that I might not be able to post a chapter per day. Anyway, here's the next one.  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Upon entering 221 B John felt deeply relieved. He inhaled the scent of the old house, a mixture of Mrs Hudson's cleansing agents, the old but clean carpet, a hint of mustiness, and the faint odour of coffee and pastry from Speedy's next door, which he usually didn't even notice, but instantly made him feel home now.

Sherlock stood in the hall, taking in an impression which was quite different compared to his family home. There were, however, still no traces of recognition in the sleuth's facial expression. After a moment of hesitation, he climbed the stairs to their flat, counting each step and apparently confirming for himself that there were in fact seventeen of them. John rather found that seventeen were too much - definitely a challenging number to climb on crutches. He tried to find the best way to go up the steps and, as using both walking aids was a bit risky on the rather steep staircase, ended up clinging to the handrail with one hand, holding both crutches in the other hand while jumping upstairs step by step, cursing under his breath.

"Thanks,... mate,... your help... is always... appreciated."

Sherlock only threw a quick glance over his shoulder, his brow furrowed, before sinking back into concentration.

"Sarcasm," John grumbled, realizing that it wasn't Sherlock's intention to be so annoyingly inconsiderate. His lack of helpfulness was rather a matter of unawareness of other people's needs – something that obviously hadn't changed with the loss of his memories.

Mycroft had wanted to join them on their return home, but Sherlock had insisted on taking this step alone, or rather in the private company of the only other individual who belonged there. He hesitated slightly at the door to their flat, finally pushing it open cautiously with his flat hand, as if he was expecting danger lurking behind it. Standing in the doorway, he inspected the main room of 221B.

When John had eventually managed to ascend the first floor, he was leaning heavily on his walking aids, his breath coming fast from the exhaustion, waiting patiently behind his friend.

"It's quite... messy," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, taking a few steps further into the room.

"Ironic that you should say it. – Although... it's quite tidy at present. You normally tend to spread your experiments, or parts of them, over each spare spot of all rooms apart from yours."

The Consulting Detective threw a quick, inscrutable glance at John. He shrugged off his coat, searching the room with his eyes, apparently looking for the hook to hang it on.

"There." John pointed with one of his crutches to the coat hooks at the wall. However, instead of hanging the woollen garment there, Sherlock threw it unceremoniously onto John's favourite armchair. After another while of simply standing at one spot, his eyes wandering through the room, Sherlock went through the flat, taking in every detail of it and examining one or another item more closely. John allowed him to take a look at his own room and Sherlock spent a couple of minutes upstairs. John didn't join him as the prospect of climbing yet some more stairs wasn't really appealing. After returning from his flatmate's bedroom, Sherlock went straight to his own room, shutting the door behind him.

John dropped into his armchair by the fireplace, sighing heavily and ignoring the fact that the detective's coat would become all creased. It was a bit chilly in the flat, but there was no blanket whatsoever within the handicapped man's reach. Mrs Hudson had apparently turned the heating down during their absence, but hadn't been there to prepare their flat for their return. The exhausted man didn't feel like getting up from his seat despite the uncomfortable chill. He pulled the Union Jack cushion out from behind his back, which wouldn't really warm him, but offered at least a little cosiness. John cuddled the soft piece, but felt that he was starting to shiver from the cold, so he reached behind him and spread the coat over himself, letting his thoughts wander. He was reminded of his first evening at 221B when he had taken a seat in exactly the same armchair, cursing his leg in the same way as now. Back then, however, his limp had merely been psychosomatic as opposed to now, where the reason for it was clearly visible, reflecting the light in its metal parts that weren't covered by the woollen cloth. He hoped that he would soon get rid of the fixating apparatus and would be able to take up intensive training to overcome the aftereffects of the fracture.

John wondered what Sherlock was doing in his room, but he didn't want to disturb him. The ex-soldier could very well imagine that it needed time for his friend to adjust to the new home, although it wasn't new at all, but merely entirely unfamiliar to Sherlock.

After some time Sherlock emerged from his room, standing in the living-room, contemplating.

"What's on your mind?" John asked, still clutching to the cushion on top of his makeshift blanket.

"I'm deducing myself. You said I was quite good at it, so I should be able to find something out about myself, shouldn't I?"

"I guess so," John mused, briefly pulling down the corners of his mouth at a loss.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, frowning and pointing to the black cloth on John's legs.

"Your coat. I was cold."

The Consulting Detective's frown deepened and he slightly tilted his head, but he was apparently unable or unwilling to put into words what was on his mind, as he remained quiet. After a brief moment the lines on his forehead smoothed out and Sherlock seemed to have retreated again into deep concentration, standing completely still. John knew that if Sherlock had remembered, he wouldn't have left the coat for John's comfort. If anything was sacred to this rational human being, it was his Belstaff coat.

After a while the doctor wondered whether the tall man was still breathing and he watched his friend with growing curiosity. Sherlock had apparently lost none of his ability to shut himself off from the rest of his surroundings. All of a sudden, the Consulting Detective took a deep breath and flopped down onto the sofa.

"And?" John probed, desiring to know what his flatmate had concluded about himself.

"It's... difficult," Sherlock said cautiously, steepling his hands under his chin. The gesture was so familiar to John that it rather appeared to him as if they were playing a strange game. He was convinced that Sherlock would be able to lead everyone up the garden path about the true state of his mind if necessary, as he was displaying his usual habits, giving proof of his general knowledge – only Sherlock Holmes' personal history was still buried somewhere in a mind that was playing tricks on its owner.

"Care to share?" John encouraged Sherlock, who screwed up his face, throwing an irritated glance at his flatmate.

"What for, John? To make a fool of myself and to entertain you?"

The man in the armchair shifted a bit, straightening his back.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, if there have been moments when I couldn't suppress a giggle – but you're not making a fool of yourself! I know you – at least I think so – and I can probably adjust your own image of yourself a bit, if necessary. I just want to help you. Although..., if you're still as good as you were, you won't be wrong anyway. "

John didn't know if Sherlock was really willing to tell him his deductions or if he had merely goaded him to do so by giving him an incentive to proof his cleverness, but the younger man let his hands drop in his lap, taking a deep breath, and started talking.

"All rooms seem to be messy at first sight, but on closer examination the mess isn't coincidence, all books and papers are systematically ordered, as far as I can see. There is a lot of scientific equipment in the kitchen and some in my room, so I assume that's what you and Molly Hooper were talking about – my experiments. Your room is neat and clean, your clothes are meticulously folded - clearly a remainder of your military history - but stored away without any attention to shades of colour or type of fabric, whereas my room is of a different tidiness. Systematic tidiness down to the order of the socks and underwear. The periodic table and the picture of its inventor, the judo certificate and the picture of Edgar Allen Poe tell me a lot about myself, some things of which you have told me already. I have a knack for Chemistry – I can tell you the full story and all data about each and every element. It's just in my head. But there is no certificate, which I would have put on the wall as a display of my abilities like the other items, so I didn't finish my university studies – at least I didn't take the exams, most likely I didn't consider them important. My current self totally agrees with my former self in this point, by the way..." He grimaced at John, imitating a brief smile, and leaned forward on the sofa, resting his elbows on his thighs before continuing.

"The writer, Poe, must be the origin for my liking for detective work. I must have read his stories at some point in my life – most probably the only pieces of fictional writing that have ever impressed me. There are no pieces of fiction in my room, only few in the living-room, but quite a number in your room. Thus, I don't read fiction. I'm a man of reason...

"Oh, yes," John mumbled to himself, earning himself a piercing look of Sherlock's, who curtly shook his head and went on.

"There is a bust of Goethe in my room. Since I don't read fiction, I must appreciate his scientific work. Goethe was a genius of his time, so either I consider him thus, or I consider myself equal to the genius, which, at this point of insight into myself, seems to be quite likely." He frowned and the speed with which he had delivered his deductions decreased slightly with the last bit as if he didn't believe or want to believe in what he had said.

John had listened to his flatmate, utterly dumbfounded by the precision with which Sherlock was deducing himself and putting the pieces of his character together. When he drew the parallel between him and Goethe, however, John chuckled. Even without his memories, Sherlock proved his megalomaniac tendencies.

"Quite right so far. Excellent!" John exclaimed. "Go on."

Sherlock looked at him with a small frown, but it seemed as if he was actually enjoying this brainwork and the exploration of who he was.

"There are some pieces that don't fit into the puzzle, though: we share a flat. Taking the quality of my clothes and the family mansion into account, it's not because of the lack of money. Not from my side, at least..."

"Thanks, idiot!" John sulked, "I'm aware of it."

"No need to be offended, John. It's just the plain facts. – But why then do I share my flat with you?"

John grinned. "What do you think?" he asked with a low voice, sounding almost seductively.

Sherlock suddenly straightened his back, scrutinising his opposite with his brow furrowed.

"We're not... I'm not... Am I? - _Really_?"

John's grin widened. He was aware of the fact that it was slightly mean to tease Sherlock in such a way, but he simply couldn't resist and so far his bad conscience wasn't too pungent as well.

"Are you... _what_?" he probed.

"Are we... sharing this flat because we're romantically attached?" the Consulting Detective burst out, his shoulders slumping with apparent relief that the question was out. There was, however, a hint of disappointment or embarrassment in his facial expression when he lowered his eyes.

"People gossip about us occasionally and some even insist on the idea of the two of us being a couple, but I didn't lie to you when I said we were friends. We don't share the bed, Sherlock. We're both dead straight as far as I can tell."

John sensed that he had entered slippery terrain as, in fact, he didn't really know for sure about his flatmate's orientation. His assumptions were merely based on the fact that Sherlock had told him the very first evening that any romantic attachment wasn't "really his area" and that he had witnessed the Consulting Detective falling for Irene Adler.

"So, why do you think do we share a flat if not for any romantic or financial reasons?" he asked Sherlock out of curiosity.

"My brother has his hand in it, I guess. He is quite patronising and there was something he desperately wanted to hide from me. He's keeping a careful eye on me and you are his spy."

"Look at you, Sherlock Holmes!" John said quite admiringly after a little pause, "You don't need your memories. Everything and everyone is like an open book to you. You're quite right, apart from the fact that Mycroft had offered me money to spy on you but I didn't take it."

"Should have known, though. Your military attitude forbids you to accept bribery. You're utterly loyal."

"Maybe I am, but that's quite a long story, Sherlock."

"John..., why do I know all the general facts, all the details about certain things, but don't know anything about me?"

The ex-army doctor inhaled deeply, pondering for a couple of seconds before speaking.

"Your psyche seems to be overburdened, thus shuts down those parts of the information flow in your brain that harm you - global retrograde amnesia. Normally, it's not the general knowledge that threatens your psyche but personal experience. That's why you know everything but the facts about yourself. – I'm neither a neurologist nor a psychiatrist, so this is just my general understanding of your problem."

"Has anybody already told my psyche to piss off?!" Sherlock growled, pushing himself up from the sofa and crossing the living-room with long strides into the direction of the windows.

John's eyes followed his friend. Sherlock was obviously more distressed by his amnesia than he would ever put into words.

The sleuth was standing by the window, his gaze set on the violin and the bow, which were leaning at the wall. He carefully took the items in his hands, following each of the strings with his index finger before plucking it once, producing a short "pling" in different pitches.

He stretched his neck before resting his chin on the chin rest, and placing the bow on the strings in a tender movement. His left hand embraced the violin's fingerboard, his fingers spread, tips lying on the strings.

John was fascinated by the ceremony with which Sherlock was re-familiarizing himself with his instrument. The suspense of the anticipation of the first tones played was almost unbearable. Finally, the bow hit the strings and was pushed over them, producing a delicate sound. John chuckled when he instantly recognised the piece. It was "God Save the Queen".

Sherlock went on playing some other short pieces of music. The melodies almost lulled John into sleep, when all of a sudden Sherlock cursed. "I can't remember the scores!" he exclaimed, frustrated.

The tired man started, sitting up in his armchair. "You don't remember the scores? Isn't it enough to remember the notes for the violin part? If you were the conductor, it would be quite useful to remember it, but otherwise...?"

"But I don't! I need the notes!"

"There's nothing wrong with that, Sherlock. Just give it a try."

The disappointed man opened the book that was sitting on his music stand – Bach – and prepared himself to start playing once more. John could see the concentration on Sherlock's face, but the music didn't reflect it. The tune was filling the room harmoniously and soon the violinist relaxed a bit and went on playing at sight.

John enjoyed the music for a while and Sherlock seemed to be calmer than most of the days before, but both men were exhausted at the end of the day, and after an Italian take-away dinner, they retreated to their rooms, wishing each other a good night.

* * *

 

In the middle of the night John woke with a start, hearing the melody of some sad violin tune, which sounded strangely familiar to him. Sherlock was playing his precious instrument again.

Sleepily, the handicapped man gathered his crutches and limped out of the room and down the stairs as quietly as his leg and crutches allowed.

Sherlock was standing by the window in front of his music stand with some handwritten notes on it. However, the younger man wasn't looking at them as far as John could see. The living-room was dark apart from the lamp by the window, the furniture casting long, eerie shadows in John's direction. The doctor watched his friend attentively. He seemed to be transported into a parallel world, the bow finding its way over the strings by magic command, producing a melancholy melody that touched John's heart.

Without a warning, Sherlock stopped short, the bow still on the strings, his eyes becoming wide. He turned around so that he fully faced John, a wild and haunted look in his eyes, all colour having vanished from his face, his mouth open in a silent cry of terror. The doctor's blood froze. The expensive instrument dropped on the floor, producing an inharmonious tone, followed by its owner, whose knees had given in under him. Sherlock slumped on the floor, unconscious.

John suddenly remembered the tune Sherlock had played. It had been the melody he had composed after the supposed death of Irene Adler. He had played it without looking at his notes...


	26. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, the first post of this chapter was completely messed up, I don't know why. This is the correct order.

“Sherlock!"

John resisted the first impulse to throw away his crutches and run to his friend, knowing that his leg wouldn't carry him. Instead, he limped over to him as fast as he could, crouching down beside him laboriously and ignoring the searing pain in his limb.

"Sherlock! What's wrong?!" he yelled, panic spreading in his guts. He had often told people not to yell at unconscious patients as the volume didn't make any difference, but now he couldn't avoid the shrill pitch of his voice. The reflection of terror in Sherlock's eyes had shocked the ex-army man deeply as it had reminded him of the young soldiers he hadn't been able to rescue. It had resembled the look of those who had been hit by bullets or shell splinter, afraid of the inevitable. The feelings of despair and helplessness not to be able to save those young men, who hadn't lived their lives yet and hadn't been prepared to die, had left indelible marks in John's heart and he was horrified to see the same expression on his friend's face.

Collecting himself, he checked Sherlock's vitals and, to his greatest relief, found that the Consulting Detective's condition was stable. He felt the blood pulsating fast but regularly in the younger man's carotid, and the breathing was slightly flat, but not alarmingly so. The doctor patted his friend's cheeks, feeling the cold sweat on Sherlock's skin. He called his name repeatedly, and after seemingly endless minutes, his eyelids started fluttering and he moaned quietly.

"Come on, mate, wake up! We don't want to go back to hospital, do we?" John exclaimed, scanning the room for Sherlock's mobile. He knew that his was in his room – too far away to reach for an emergency call. The man in front of him slowly opened his eyes and John was again struck by the look in them. Sherlock's face was screwed up in an expression of pain, a deep line drawn between his brows. His eyes were glistening, mirroring something that John couldn't really grasp. The pain didn't seem to be physical, though, since there was no reaction when he palpated his friend's body.

Sherlock inhaled and exhaled deeply, and even more so with every breath he took. "Sherlock," he called his friend, "talk to me! What's wrong with you? You remember something, don't you? Talk to me!"

The Consulting Detective finally managed to focus his gaze on his flatmate.

"Every...thing," he whispered with some effort. His voice sounded strange, almost panic-stricken, and something cold went through John's body. He remembered - and the doctor had a vague feeling that "everything" was much more than Sherlock had wanted or imagined to remember, and probably more than he could cope with.

"Everything?" he probed and took his friend's pulse again, which turned out to have quickened a lot.

"Yes," Sherlock exhaled, his breath coming more raggedly.

"OK, mate, breathe with me, right? Breathe with me! You're hyperventilating. Exhale! ...two...three, inhale... two, exhale... two, three..." John instructed his flatmate and slowly Sherlock's breath evened out. John looked at him intently.

"Can you talk to me?"

Sherlock looked back at John, his gaze somewhat wild. He was lying with his back on the floor just as he had dropped there, his arms spread, his legs slightly bent, both knees pointing into one direction.

"I... remember... every... single... detail... of...everything!" Sherlock uttered, strained.

"Your mind palace?" John asked carefully, dreading the answer.

"I... don't know... inaccessible... not there."

John realised that he had been right about the "cracks" in Sherlock's mind palace, whose existence Mycroft had incomprehensibly attempted to deny, but had been obvious to John. Moreover, the mental palace had apparently been completely destroyed and the little things Sherlock had remembered during his state of amnesia had been foreshadowing that this would happen. John didn't have the faintest idea as to the explanation of it on a neurological level and even less so what it had to be like to be washed over by the recall of your whole life. Whatever there had been in Sherlock Holmes' past, his abduction was one event that John knew had been tormenting his friend in a way that it had almost killed him, and he was afraid that its memories could have the exact same effect even some twenty-five years later. He could only guess what other distressing events there had been in the life of the thirty-something man who had been fighting his own war long before the time he had been sharing the flat with John. A freshly present memory of all the things the Consulting Detective had gone through in his life could still be nothing but painful. Although Sherlock was grown up now and his reason was normally wiping away any notion of fear, his facial expression had told John otherwise. The blast of memories made it seemingly impossible for the younger Holmes to control his fear. They needed help – once more.

"Sherlock, listen, I have to get my phone to get someone here to help me. I can barely walk myself, let alone get you into your bed. So stay put for a moment, will you?"

"Help is already here," they heard Mycroft's voice from the door. John jumped, but Sherlock only closed his eyes for a second, impossible for John to say whether with irritation or relief.

"Not that I'm unhappy that you're here, Mycroft, but you will give me a heart attack one of these days! Can't you at least knock?!" the doctor ranted. He stared at the older Holmes, the expression of relief on his face proving his outburst a fake. "I really can't remember having given you a key, so how did you again get in?" he added, shaking his head.

"Wouldn't a knock on the door have the same effect?" Mycroft returned the question smugly. "I haven't come to discuss your heart problems, John, but I think you and my brother need a helping hand."

Sherlock was still flat on the floor. The terrified expression on his face, however, had been replaced by the rather familiar expression of annoyance.

"I should have known you had the flat bugged," the younger Holmes stated, his voice still strained.

"You couldn't have known that, Sherlock, you didn't know anything, but from your statement I imagine, your memories have come back at least partially," his brother replied.

"So just cameras, no microphones," Sherlock stated plainly, still not moving. Mycroft raised the edges of his mouth, which John interpreted as a small smile of probably relief about the return of his brother's memories. John sensed that he wouldn't be all too happy when he got to know the whole truth.

Mycroft stepped out of the way of two doctors, who entered the room hurriedly, one of whom walked over to Sherlock, while the other one helped John up and led him to an armchair before examining the leg.

"Don't touch me!" the Consulting Detective yelled all of a sudden with an impressively strong voice. "Leave me alone – I'm fine!"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, watching his brother with a hint of surprise. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands resting on the handle of his umbrella.

"Brother dear, it really appears to me as if you needed somebody's hand right now. You have just survived a shot to your head and with that fact in mind, fainting is nothing I would consider harmless in the first place."

"Don't. Touch. Me!" Sherlock hissed in the direction of the doctor, his eyes, however, fixed on his brother, who had stepped up to the younger man. He was glaring daggers at the older Holmes.

John was sitting in the armchair, watching the two. He had no idea as to why Sherlock was refusing the doctor's help when he had accepted his.

"Sherlock," he intervened, "let the doctor help you. Mycroft is right, fainting isn't good. Maybe it's more than the return of your memories."

"Don't touch me!" he repeated, his voice dangerously low.

The respective doctor was visibly torn between doing his duty, risking a punch from an awkward patient, and withdrawing. He wouldn't dare, though, as long as Mycroft hadn't given his consent, so he was looking alternately to his boss and his younger brother. A curt nod from the former made him step back.

"Wait within reach." Mycroft briefly instructed the two.

After they had left the flat, the older Holmes bent down to his brother, offering him a hand, which the younger man didn't accept.

"Can't... move," Sherlock brought out between gritted teeth, and both John and Mycroft exclaimed in unison, "What?"

In fact, since he had dropped to the floor, Sherlock hadn't moved at all. John reached for his crutches hectically and got up from the armchair as fast as possible. Mycroft knelt down, and just as he went to touch his brother's shoulder, the man shouted, "DON'T!"

"Sherlock, what is it?" the doctor asked worriedly, limping towards his friend.

"It... hurts. Everything hurts," the lanky man admitted sheepishly.

John had eventually reached the two men. He looked down on his friend and wished once more that his leg wasn't such an obstacle.

"'Everything hurts' is slightly too generic. Can you be a little more precise? You didn't feel any pain when I examined you, did you?"

It was Mycroft who answered John's questions. "It's nothing specific, John. It is allodynia, isn't it, Sherlock?" He seemed to scrutinize his brother, his face a display of worry and sympathy as well as something dangerous John couldn't really grasp but had seen quite frequently during the last weeks. It apparently was Mycroft's protective instinct.

"Allodynia?" John asked disbelievingly. "Have you had that before?" John had only heard of people suffering from the increased neuronal response due to stimuli that didn't cause any response in a healthy person. A person with allodynia, however, felt pain where others felt a slight breath, if at all. It explained why Sherlock didn't want to be touched and couldn't move.

It was again Mycroft who reacted. "Yes, he did. Back then." John knew he was referring to the time after the abduction. Turning to Sherlock, the older Holmes asked quietly, and with a surprisingly soft voice, "You remember some terrible things, don't you?"

"I remember everything." Sherlock whispered, looking his brother straight into the eyes. John could once again see the terror in his friend's features.

"But... I examined you, palpated you. Why didn't you say anything, Sherlock?" John wanted to know. He was confused that Sherlock hadn't complained at all when he had examined him, as he knew that he generally hated being touched anyway and the examination could have been nothing else but real torture with this kind of neurological disorder.

"It had only been... developing." Sherlock whispered under his breath, closing his eyes slowly.

John simply didn't know what to do. This was nothing he had dealt with before. He felt the urge to hold Sherlock like a suffering child, knowing that it was probably the worst thing he could do with a hypersensitive body and a character like Sherlock's in general. They would need the help of one of Mycroft's staff to administer some medication that would reduce the neurological malfunction. John looked at Mycroft.

"For a start, he needs Lidocaine against the allodynia. We need to get him off the floor. And then, Mycroft, you should give your people hell and get this Tobias here!"

"We've already found him." Mycroft replied, however without any relief in his voice, and John sensed that wasn't good news.

"He's dead. Has been for more than ten years. He had emigrated to South America, that's why we lost track."


	27. Restorations

"The death was of natural cause, heart attack. He'd always had a couple of pounds too much. He really must have been quite obese in the end," Mycroft added slightly thoughtfully, as if contemplating his own weight problems for a brief moment.

John looked at the older Holmes, unable to verbalize what was going through his mind. Just one word slipped off his lips, "Fuck!"

"Swearing doesn't help," Mycroft stated drily.

"Not him, but me, Mycroft. You should try it every once in a while. Would help you relax," John grumbled. He once again crouched down next to his friend.

"Sherlock, we're going to give you something for the pain now, so that you can get to your room and get some rest..."

"I don't need rest... brain does," he hissed.

"One thing might come along with the other," the Detective's flatmate tried to assure him, but wasn't convinced of what he said himself.

After Sherlock had felt some relief from the pain that the drugs had finally brought, they moved him into his room and put him to bed. By that time, Sherlock was hardly able to utter a clear thought, his words resembling the confusion of memories that were occupying his mind. His speaking wasn't directed at anyone, rather sounding like an old, demented man's babbling. As none of the persons present had any experience with such a case, they exchanged helpless glances.

"Let's have him rest for a while and then see what we can do," John suggested.

Mycroft's staff were sent away, not without leaving emergency equipment at 221B. John and Mycroft himself sat down in the living-room, waiting. To John's greatest surprise, the personified British Government stood up after a while, busying himself with preparing tea for them. Although he turned up his nose about the state of the flatmates' kitchen, he didn't say anything, just taking the two steaming mugs with him and handing one to John, who had lain down on the sofa to allow his leg some rest.

For a while they just remained silent, only listening to the muffled mumbling coming from Sherlock's room.

"Have you got something like it, too? A mind palace?" John interrupted the silence, asking out of curiosity.

As in many ways the Holmes brothers were much alike despite their desperate attempts to deny this fact, John assumed that Mycroft had created something similar in his mind. However, if they shared the tendency towards megalomania, John could hardly imagine what Mycroft's mental construction would be, since a palace was no special place for him as they had seen during their memorable visit to the Buckingham Palace. John grinned quietly to himself.

"Something of the kind." Mycroft replied distractedly, reading on his phone.

"What is it?" the doctor wanted to know.

"What does it matter, John?" the older Holmes asked, looking up, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing, I was just... asking."

"Surely, the amount of data that is stored in my mind is unimaginably higher than in Sherlock's. You can probably imagine that 'a palace' is not what I would choose." He pronounced the word 'palace' with a clear notion of condescension.

John snorted. "No. Thought so." Mycroft would not give away what his creation was, so he decided to drop the topic.

Daylight was dawning and Mycroft couldn't hide the yawns that he had been trying to stifle for a while any longer. John assumed that he had dozed off a couple of times. The mumbling from Sherlock's room was still audible.

Mycroft stood up, stretching his back. "I will look after him and then I have to leave, I'm afraid. I have tried to delegate most of my affairs, but there are still some left that need my personal attention."

"It's alright, Mycroft. I think I can handle him. If not, I'll call you. – Wait..." John screwed up his face into a fake smile. "I don't have to, do I? You will know anyway, right?"

"It has more than once proven to be useful to keep a careful eye on the two of you, John," the older Holmes countered, returning the plastic smile without showing the faintest hints of a bad conscience; and John reluctantly had to admit that he wasn't all that wrong.

He pursed his lips, sighing, "I'll let you know about any changes."

"Do so. Good-bye, John."

 

 

John had apparently fallen asleep again, when he suddenly woke with a start. Something was wrong. The mumbling from Sherlock's room had turned into shouting and occasional yelling, and all of a sudden it was quiet.

Leaning heavily on one of his crutches, John made his way to Sherlock's room as quickly as possible. After a brief knock, he entered.

Sherlock was lying on his bed just as they had put him there. Upon John entering the room, he turned his head, looking at his flatmate with a strangely cold expression.

The sight of it made John hesitate, feeling a little wrong-footed. It seemed ages since he'd seen such a look on his flatmate's face. It was precisely the kind of look he used to give John if he'd interrupted an important experiment – or that he would give Molly if she made a particularly fatuous comment.

"What's wrong?" he asked innocently, as if nothing had happened.

John felt his uneasiness and concern give way to utter confusion before settling at something between relief and anger.

"What's wrong?!" he yelled, shaking his head disbelievingly. "Hmm, let's summarise – oh, where do I start? At the beginning? Yeah. - You were poisoned with a nerve agent – so was I, coincidentally -, almost died from a nosebleed, nearly tried to kill yourself, were shot in the head while I was run over by a car, were in a coma, lost your memories, and finally your mind palace crashed and you ended up lying unconscious on the floor suffering from allodynia before retreating into a state of a dementia-ridden 100-year-old! As you remember things now, don't you think that the simple question of "what's wrong?" is slightly out of place?!"

Having got this out of his system, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

"I was restoring my mind palace." Sherlock stated plainly, obviously still unaware of the emotional turmoil his friend had been and still was going through.

"You... were _what_?!"

"Restoring my mind palace. Didn't you hear me?" The consulting detective frowned in apparent puzzlement.

"Yes, I heard you shouting. Sherlock! Your brother has moved heaven and earth to find his friend Tobias to help you with your mind palace, and you just tell me you can do it yourself?"

"Has anyone ever talked to me about it, huh?" Sherlock replied, seeming slightly unnerved.

"Actually... – no." John had to admit. Indeed, they had never said a word to Sherlock about it. They had just assumed that with his memory loss, the knowledge of how to perform the memory storage was lost, too. It probably had been, but had re-emerged along his other memories. "But do you have to do it this way? Babbling as if you were insane?"

Sherlock cast his flatmate a surprised look. "Oh, - I wasn't aware..."

"Anyway," John directed the topic onto slippery terrain, leaning to the doorframe, "so you're storing away your memories? What about those from your abduction? Have you banned them to the cellar of your newly created mind palace – or whatever it is now – again?"

"It is still a mind palace. The same as before, actually. And no. You can't just store away or delete the memories of a lifetime within just a few hours, John. It's like moving Harrod's and looking at every single piece before packing it into the removal boxes. It takes time."

"What do you know about Harrod's in the first place?" John mumbled to himself. "You want to talk about it?" he added more loudly.

"No!" was the very quick, almost panicky answer.

John nodded slightly, pursing his lips. "Need anything else? Painkillers for example?"

Sherlock sighed, impatiently. "Thanks, John. Silence is all I need." He directed his gaze towards the door, meaningfully.

The older man cleared his throat. Sherlock being all Sherlock was a tough thing to deal with after all. He felt a little disoriented. He'd been hoping that his friend would regain his memories and his personality, but now it had happened, he wasn't quite sure how he felt. But there was something else too. Sherlock seemed his usual self, but there was something in his eyes that made John hesitate.

Sherlock sighed again and rolled his eyes, making John snap out of his hesitation.

"Yeah, understand. In case you need anything, I'll be next door, trying to catch up on a little sleep. Just shout; I sleep lightly – a leftover from my military days."

Sherlock just looked at him with an unfathomable expression on his face, and John left the room, closing the door behind him and limping back to the sofa. It was good to see that Sherlock was managing his state of mind so well, but the fact that he hadn't stored away or deleted the memories of his abduction so far, worried John.

With a deep sigh, John dropped on the sofa, gingerly rested his leg on a pile of cushions and felt that he was unable to keep his eyes open. He was too exhausted.

* * *

 

Sherlock was lying on his bed, unable to sleep or even close his eyes. Every time he took an attempt at sleeping, pictures emerged in his mind that immediately forced him to open his eyes in order to ban them. He had in fact been restoring his mind palace, starting with the knowledge about the details of each and every item in his room that he could see from his position. He had gone through the entire periodic table and carefully stored away all the information on the elements that he could recall. There had been moments when he hadn't known what was going on in his mind, being washed over by a flood of data that needed to be allocated to a storage place or even to the context they belonged to. Very distressing images of him as a boy came up occasionally, but so far he had managed to push them to the back of his mind. He tried to do the restoration systematically, which was a difficult task, even for him.

On the one hand he knew how to create a new mind palace; he even considered himself a master of this task, however, deep inside him, he was longing for help, for someone who could tell him how to avoid the unwanted memories until he was prepared to deal with them. His pride, though, forbade him to ask for anyone's help. Well, the one person whose help he would have accepted was dead. The other one who would be able to help him, Mycroft, was the last person in the world whom he wanted to entrust with everything he had been trying to hide for years. Plus, it was bloody difficult to acknowledge that Mycroft was not the despicable unapproachable man he had believed he was. In fact, Sherlock's memories revealed a sort of loving and caring brother, a new perception that was difficult for the younger Holmes to cope with. He felt helpless and insecure. How was he supposed to face his brother? What was he supposed to say? Was Mycroft expecting him to say anything at all for he would know that Sherlock was struggling with what he remembered about his brother now? Sherlock didn't know the answers, so it was safer to simply avoid Mycroft until he had found a certain peace of mind, until the recreation of his mind palace was complete.

That was why he pretended to John that everything was ok. John was too caring to just let him be if he found out about his real misery.

With a sound that was meant to be a sigh rather than the moan it actually came out as, Sherlock let the memories of that particular, life-changing week, when he had been ten years old, drift into his consciousness. He would deal with them now to finally get all the emotional trouble over with.


	28. Sherlock's Suffering I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After pussyfooting around it for a long time, here's what happened to Sherlock. So be warned:  
> GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF TORTURE!
> 
> (You may have read worse, but for me, this was even difficult to write)  
> _________________________________________________________________________________

_He was strolling through the Holmes mansion's vast grounds, looking for another specimen of Solanum dulcamara, or Bittersweet Nightshade, as people without proper botanical knowledge called it. It was impossible to talk to most people about plants – not flowers, plants!- since they couldn't distinguish Bellis perennis from Taraxacum officinale, or a daisy from a dandelion. However, he wasn't interested in just the plants and their blooms, he was interested in the alkaloids they produced. Solanum dulcamara produced three different kinds of poisonous alkaloids, which he was interested in. Unfortunately, that prat of a kitchen maid had fed his latest yields of the Nightshade to the rabbit, thinking he had picked some rabbit food. What sense was there in picking bloody rabbit food? He had to admit, though, that the effects the Bittersweet Nightshade had had on the rabbit, had been quite interesting. Regrettably, the rabbit hadn't lasted long and his observations had come to an abrupt end when his grandfather had found him poking the rabbit to make it vomit once again. His grandfather hadn't been pleased to put it mildly._

_He had been tempted every once in a while to test the effects of solanine on himself, however, hadn't had access to unripe potatoes and had been slapped on his hands a couple of times for picking the green tomatoes. He knew now that the solanine could kill you if the dosage was high enough; it was just a matter of working it out, so this had after all been an interesting outcome, despite the fact that he now needed a new specimen of the plant to examine it closer._

_He was deep in thought and only noticed the man when he reached out a hand to him that was holding a wilted plant._

_"Are you looking for this one, Sherlock?" the man asked, and the very moment he lifted his head to look at the man properly, he was overwhelmed by the deductions that where whirling in his head and that came to a single conclusion: RUN!_

_The last thing he remembered before everything went dark was the cloying scent of Chloroform he normally used to anaesthetize Drosophila melanogaster, the fruit flies he was doing genetic studies with. He knew he would just drop like the flies from the air._

_When he woke up, he was surrounded by a darkness that was deeper than that during his unconsciousness. He still smelled the remnants of the Chloroform on his skin, which was disturbing his ability to deduce his surroundings. However, the smell of the narcotic was still overlaid with a much stronger, musty odour and a biting stench of decomposition. Sherlock felt his heart beating violently. With the faintest trace of light, he would have been able to find his bearings, but in complete darkness, it was beyond even his possibilities._

_He tried to move. Nothing. Only now did Sherlock realise that he was lying on something flat. He couldn't say whether it was the floor, a board or whatever. It wasn't anything soft, though. His feet and arms were fixed so that he couldn't move them. The tiny movements he was capable of making, were just millimetres before ankles and wrists were hurting so much that he tried to stretch his arms and legs even further to loosen the painful grip of his bonds._

_"Stay calm and think!" Sherlock thought to soothe himself. He wanted to say it out loud, maybe even scream, but he felt the tape over his mouth. He wouldn't be able to open his mouth, let alone utter anything. He needed to control his panic. Oxygen supply in situations of panic wasn't sufficient when just breathing through the nose – he would faint if he didn't manage to calm down._

_Knots, the knots of his bonds were special knots, tightening with every movement, cutting into his skin deeper and deeper._

_He was cold, in fact shivering, and he realised that he was naked. Naked and tied, that wasn't good. He remembered looking into the face of the man who must have kidnapped him. What had he to do with the man? He normally wasn't good at reading people's faces, but this one had had such an obvious look of hatred that it had instantly set off even his interior alarm._

_As fear was mingling with the cold, the shivering became worse. His desperate attempts to suppressthe involuntary contractions of his muscles caused pain throughout his entire body, which, however, was nothing against the numbness that was spreading in his hands and feet. By moving, he had tightened the knots to such a degree that the blood flow was already partially interrupted. His hands and feet would die if the knots weren't loosened very soon. The urge to fight and scream became unbearable and he started moaning in lack of the ability to open his mouth. He couldn't avoid the tears that were springing to his eyes, feeling the hot liquid running down his cheeks, burning into his cool skin. The desperate effort to control his rising panic was in vain, and he realised that he needed to open his mouth in order to inhale enough oxygen. However, the fact that his mouth was taped closed, increased the hysterical feeling. There were sparkles emerging in his darkened view – he was losing consciousness again._

_He didn't have the faintest idea how much time had passed when he felt his senses coming back. The cold had crawled into his entire body, numbing it; however, the pain in his wrists and ankles had become less severe. He gingerly tried to move a finger just a tad to make sure the pain relief wasn't caused by the fact that they were already dead. The bonds' knots had to be different now._

_The very moment he lifted his index finger he felt that his lying position was changed from horizontal into slanted, his head lower than his feet. He wasn't quite upside-down, but he could already feel the increased pressure of his blood running into his head._

_With a quick and rather brutal movement, the tape was stripped off his mouth, but he couldn't welcome the feeling of being able to breathe through it since a wet cloth was put over his mouth and nose and again, he had trouble getting in enough air._

_When he found that water was poured over the cloth again and again, and he desperately tried to suck in oxygen through the wet rag, his fear took control of him completely. The water was constantly triggering his reflex to vomit and he was about to lose it entirely. He threw his head from one side to the other, trying to rid himself of the rag on his face, wiggling ferociously with his body with all the strength he could muster and his bonds allowed._

_He felt that if the water didn't stop, he would suffocate. The gag reflex grew so strong that his entire body was convulsing, however, apart from a little bile, there was nothing to throw up. The acid stomach liquid flowed into his mouth and from there into the nasal cavities, etching the mucous membranes and burning like fire. He wanted to spit the bile out, but simply couldn't._

_There was a strange and unnatural whimpering sound and he could only guess that it came from himself. He became fully aware of the fact that he wouldn't last much longer, when all of a sudden the cloth was gone. After some painful coughing, he lay totally still, just inhaling and exhaling, trying to fill his lungs with the oxygen they were longing for. He now heard the movements of his kidnapper, the slightly ragged breathing, which could either be caused by a sick pleasure or by the hatred Sherlock had seen in the man's face._

_When beside his simple struggle for staying alive his mental abilities recovered a bit, he wondered why in the world he was held captive. Apart from offending people occasionally, he had done nothing that would justify this torture. He tried to speak, but all that escaped his mouth was an unintelligible croak._

_"How are you feeling, huh?" the man asked him, a tone of evil amusement in his voice._

_Sherlock didn't see him, rather felt the man as he was leaning in to him. He smelled his breath, which revealed, apart from a mild form of halitosis, that he had been drinking - not just this once, but on a regular basis. His last meals' ingredients had been garlic and onion, and the mixture of the different smells again triggered his gag reflex._

_"Not so well, I take it," the man said, blowing his breath directly into the boy's face._

_"You see, Sherlock Holmes, it's not nice to serve as a testing rabbit. You understand? - No, you don't."_

_Sherlock was unable to speak, all his efforts to focus his mind on assessing his situation were in vain. He distantly wondered whether his situation had anything to do with the dead rabbit as the man had spoken about a testing rabbit. It hadn't been his fault that the rabbit had eaten the poisonous plant!_

_"You wonder who I am?" the man spat and the boy could feel the warmth radiating from his abductor's skin close to his own face. Although he was freezing cold, the warmth wasn't soothing; it felt rather revolting._

_Sherlock still couldn't say anything and for a short while the only sounds audible were the breaths of him and his torturer._

_"You don't wanna talk to me? Then I'll talk to you – and you'd better listen carefully!" he hissed, saliva spraying on the boy's face, who desperately wanted to wipe it away, but still the bonds prevented any movement of his arms. He didn't dare to move his head to the side as he knew he would very likely be too close to the man's face and, therefore at risk of physical contact, the very idea of which revolted him._

_"I'm an avenging angel and you, Sherlock Holmes, are nobody anymore. You will soon be forgotten by the world, by your family. Nobody loves you anyway – you're a nuisance, worth nothing. You mummy didn't want you, your daddy despises you, your brother hates you and finds you just annoying!"_

_The boy's eyes were wide open. He desperately tried to see through the darkness and he fought to avoid the imminent emotional eclipse of his heart. If he had always been sure of the love of his family, he would have thought nothing of what the man said, but he was aware of the sad truth in what he claimed. And that truth hurt even more than the physical pain he was suffering from at the moment._

_The man went on talking and Sherlock wished he was able to shut his ears from what he was hearing._

_"Your fucking grandfather is a murderer! He murdered MY father and I'm gonna show them what it's like to never be able to bury your family member – at least not whole!"_

_It felt as if the man was coming even closer. He could only be millimetres away. His words were like venom, uttered like the hiss of a snake._

_"When I'm done with you, there won't be much left to bury."_

_He laughed, a dirty and evil sound that along with the words he had spoken, crept into the boy's heart and made his hair stand on end._

_"Oh, they will be able to bury you - in pieces. Small parts, over some weeks. A finger first, then a toe, maybe an ear, then parts of your skin. You will rot to death finally and you'll embrace it by then!"_

_Sherlock mustered all his willpower and croaked, "What do you want?", although he was afraid that the answer would only be a confirmation of his own dark premonitions._

_The man laughed again. "What do I want? You little RAT! Listen carefully, because these will be the words that will stay in your mind for the tiny rest of your bloody life: I want to DESTROY your family like yours has destroyed mine!" He was whispering dangerously and repulsively and Sherlock believed him, every single word, causing his hair stand on end._

_If only there was some light! He felt like a toddler, helpless and afraid of the dark. Mycroft would laugh him as he claimed that darkness didn't hold anything one had to be frightened of; and yet it did now!_

_All of a sudden, the warm breath on his skin was gone and he heard a door open. A little ray of light reached his eyes, but was almost immediately gone and he hadn't been able to see anything. He was alone._

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	29. Sherlock's suffering II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as for the previous chapter apply! 
> 
> I won't be able to post anything for the next two days, sorry!   
> I wish everyone a HAPPY EASTER!

_Sherlock lay completely still, unable to find the will to even try to move a finger. Silent tears were running down his cheeks, leaving a slightly burning sensation on their trails. He would die – the man hadn't left any doubts about it._

_Never in his life had he felt such paralysing fear and physical as well as emotional pain. Due to the fact that he frequently managed to insult people with his deduction skills and knowledge of everything, although in many cases it wasn't on purpose, people tended to forget that, after all, he was just a vulnerable ten-year-old. It wasn't that he didn't like to be taken for older, but he sometimes did need the affirmation of his family and the cosiness of a reassuring motherly embrace just like any other child. In this particular moment, he would have given everything for his mother's or Mycroft's presence and a tight hug from one of them._

_Mycroft. His face appeared in front of Sherlock's inner eye, displaying his typical mask-like smile. Mycroft could be cold as ice, or so it seemed to those who didn't really know him. Sherlock's older brother never missed a moment to show him how little and how stupid he was compared to him, but he also never missed a moment to protect him if necessary. More than once had he helped him out of tricky or even dangerous situations, from Sherlock having climbed up trees that he couldn't get back down later, to nursing him after a backfiring experiment about the taste of apple-juice in different stages of fermentation, which had left him utterly drunk and miserably sick. Knowing that their father would have been furious, Mycroft had locked Sherlock and himself in his room and had stayed with him, emptied the buckets and helped him change his clothes and linen from time to time until he had recovered from the alcohol poisoning he had inflicted on himself._

_Sherlock felt a ridiculous urge to laugh. He had in fact been stupid with regard to the experiment; however, that wouldn't happen to him again. He had also felt embarrassed and surprised about his brother's loyalty towards him. All of a sudden the laughter growing in Sherlock's guts turned into a lump. Mycroft. He would never see him again._

_The narrowness in Sherlock's throat grew; and with it the awareness of his humiliating and hopeless situation and the fact that this time Mycroft would not be able to save him. Sobs were taking control over him, shaking his body violently._

_"Help me, Mycroft!" he whispered between ragged breaths._

_For an endless time the man didn't return and Sherlock was already wondering if he had already been left to die. However, the man had said he would be tortured, so it was unlikely that he wouldn't return. The boy didn't know which one was the better prospect. Either way, he would die._

_He had absolutely no feeling of time, drifting into moments of restless sleep or unconsciousness from time to time. He was dirty, having wet himself, which he felt and smelled. The thought of it made his face blush, but he tried to push it away as he didn't have a choice. He shouldn't worry too much anyway – death wasn't just as in the movies, closing the eyes and stopping breathing. He knew that all muscles, including the sphincter, were released in the moment of death. And still, he wasn't dead yet, and felt just inexpressibly embarrassed._

_What became worse, though, exceeding even the feeling of humiliation, was his thirst. He estimated that his abduction had already lasted more than a day and a half now and he hadn't been given any fluids so far. He would only endure about another one and a half days until he would die of thirst as his lips were already sore and a throbbing headache had settled in his brain. He needed water!_

_His desperation grew and the last sparks of his will to live forced him to think about a way to get out of this situation. However, the more he tried to concentrate on how to escape from his torture, the more did his mind focus on the longing for fluids. He didn't have any chance to grasp a clear thought._

_When the headache had become unbearable and he was feeling dizzy all the time, the door to his room opened and someone entered it. Even if the place had been lit for more than the couple of seconds that it took until the door was shut again, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to see anything since his vision was already blurred entirely._

_He was too weak to even feel the revolting sensation and the pain when his tormentor lifted his head slightly by brutally pulling his hair, making him drink a bitter, extremely distasteful liquid. Sherlock swallowed it greedily as his body was longing for any fluids, no matter the taste. In his subconscious he wondered whether what he drank was poisonous, but it wasn't important. Dying now would save him the torture that was definitely awaiting him._

_Sherlock's body was still alive, but his heart was slowly dying during the torment. All the emotions left were banned from his consciousness, since they seemed to be the source of a good deal of his agony. His eyes had been taped open and a blinding light had suddenly been held right in front of them, causing him such physical pain that he screamed from the bottom of his heart. He desperately tried to fight against the tape-strips, eventually ripping off his eyelashes._

_He was forced to act against his reflexes, having to keep his eyes open while the man was dripping saltwater into them. Sherlock knew that the concentration of the salt wasn't too high, not enough to blind him, but enough to cause a burning sensation that involuntarily resulted in blinking. Each blinking, though, was punished with a sting of a big needle or nail or something like that in his thigh. He couldn't identify the item, but it didn't matter anyway. It hurt and Sherlock was convinced that the wounds would start festering pretty soon. He would rot to death – it hadn't just been empty threats._

_Sherlock had reached a state in which he didn't know any longer what was reality and what was delirious dreaming. It didn't matter anyway since both were equally terrible._

_At some point of his anguish, left alone again, he realised that he was lost. The ague had started and he could feel the heat in his tormented and inflamed leg. The shivering fits became worse and the fever rose. All his perceptions of the outside world were tuned out and he didn't even know whether his tormentor tortured him any further._

_All of a sudden, a terrible pain shot through his right arm; a sensation so strong that for a moment his mind emerged from the half-conscious state it had lingered on, focussing on the reason for the unfamiliar feeling. Through the veil of his fever, Sherlock realised that his hand was free, his arm was free, and in the shivering fit he had hit his wrist hard on the board he was lying on._

_"This is your last chance," he heard Mycroft say. "Free yourself and get out! Do as I say!"_

_Sherlock wanted to reply a weak "I can't...," but the vision of his brother trying to get him out was so overwhelming that he mustered all the power left in his ill-treated body and fumbled with the bonds securing his left hand._

_He wasn't able to recall how exactly he had escaped. He must have run home all naked and sore, suffering from a high fever, leaving him delirious and disoriented. So either he had been very lucky or his sense of orientation worked even while dislodged from his consciousness._

_There were bits of memories about the time after his arrival at home, but Sherlock still didn't know whether they were his own fever dreams or real facts. There were visions of his grandfather's angry face, of him fighting against demons that wanted to tear out his heart and skin him, of Mycroft shouting and calling his name, of hands on his body, of the incredible heat that seemed to burn his body from the inside, little hungry flames flickering on his skin, and of the icy cold that made his teeth chatter and his body shake violently. Everything was overshadowed by blackness caused by a pain that encouraged only one wish in him: the wish to die._

_However, the next thing he remembered as truly real was going through unimaginable agony, led by Mycroft's friend Tobias. Eventually, the suffering subsided gradually and his memories became less blurred. His brother was there, night and day for some time. Then he was gone and Sherlock had been all alone, left behind, lonely and crying._

"Sherlock!"

_The boy heard someone calling him and the voice had a strangely soothing effect on him. It wasn't Mycroft, though._

"Sherlock!"

He wasn't a boy anymore and all of a sudden he recognised the voice. It was John's. With some effort he managed to open his eyes, still under the impression of his memories, and with some embarrassment he realised that his face was all wet, as was his entire body. There were still tears running down his cheeks and his pyjamas and linen were damp from sweating.

John was standing by his bedside, looking at him worriedly with his brow furrowed.

"Sherlock, you've been screaming and fighting for hours! I have tried to get through to you, but I wasn't successful. Jesus! You delivered quite a frightful show! "

It was dawning on Sherlock that the processing of his memories had obviously not been as quiet and peaceful as he had intended.

John sat down on his bedside.

"May I?" he asked, holding a hand above his forehead, signalling that apparently he wanted to check his temperature.

Sherlock was a little afraid of the touch as his entire body was still screaming "Leave me alone!", however, it would help John to calm down – and probably even him, too. His ragged breath was slowly evening out and he felt reality taking over control. There was one thing, though, that was distressing him – he still remembered. He hadn't managed to ban the memories to his mind palace.

"You've got a slight fever, Sherlock," John informed him. Going by your screaming, I won’t bother to ask if you're ok. It doesn't need much more proof to be able to say you're not."

Sherlock felt extremely uncomfortable, as if caught out doing something wrong.

"I'm ok, John. I was just... processing data," he pretended, albeit he knew from a look at his flatmate's face, that he wouldn't be able to just fob him off with this.

John looked at him knowingly.

"Don't pretend anything, mate. It's no use. You need somebody's help. If you don't want mine, you should try Mycroft's." Sherlock wanted to interrupt John, who held up his hand to stop him.

"No! Don't say anything! You, Sherlock, have been screaming for your brother for an estimated three hours now, and when I couldn't get through to you I phoned him eventually. He'll be here in about an hour."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Bloody insistent John! It had become impossible for him lately to hide anything from him.

"You could have asked me if I wanted to have my brother around," he replied in a weak attempt of regaining the upper hand.

John only snorted and upon turning to the door he remarked, "I'll go and make some tea. You need to drink something and it'll soothe you a little."

All of a sudden, Sherlock was panicking. Fear was overwhelming him and before he could even think about it he grabbed John's wrist and pleaded,

"Don't go, John."

It was like an explosion in Sherlock's mind and body. Everything seemed to tingle and his ears started ringing. He had a very strange feeling of a déjà vu, an echo of something, however, he wasn't able to put his finger on it. It seemed to be dissolved from time and space and there was a split-second's vision of him and John floating somewhere and Sherlock asking him repeatedly not to go. It didn't make sense.

The ex-army doctor was staring at Sherlock with an unfathomable expression on his face. Sherlock wasn't able to identify it – something between shock and recognition. He realised that his jaw had dropped and that the grip around his friend's waist was so tight that it had to be hurting him. He was staring back at John, a deep frown on his face. John furrowed his brow in apparent confusion.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?!" John wanted to know, looking down at his wrist that was still in his friend's clutch.

The younger man squinted and simply shook his head. He was sure that it had nothing to do with his broken mind palace; it had rather felt like an arch discharge.

"I... have no idea." Sherlock let go of John's arm. "Was there anything?"

John looked at him, an expression of utter lack of understanding on his face. He then raised his index finger, shaking it slightly.

"Ts... 'cause there was! Although I have no idea what it was. Let's call it... moment of ... intimacy. Probably. Forget it. I'll get the tea, if that's fine with you."

He had stopped waving his finger about, dropping his hand and turning again with a shake of his head.

"Maybe," Sherlock said quietly, watching his best friend leave the room. Intimacy, yes, probably. John had felt it too, and when Sherlock eliminated the impossible ,whatever remained, however improbable, had to be the truth. As telepathy was impossible, the only remaining truth could be an intimacy that sometimes twins reported of.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	30. Talking helps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! It was meant to be a two-days break, not a two-weeks hiatus. Life is just preventing me from updating.   
> We have now reached a point of the story when writing it became more and more difficult for me due to, well, real life. If you spot anything that doesn't make sense to you, please tell me, because either I can rewrite the chapter, or I can let you know if it will be clarified in later chapters.   
> Thank you for your comments and kudos and for reading this fic!

When John returned to the bedroom balancing two mugs of steaming tea in one hand, feeling the sensations of the china's heat burning his skin, Sherlock had got up from the bed and was standing by the window, swaying slightly, apparently struggling with his equilibrium – in more than one sense.

"Tea," John uttered and saw Sherlock literally jump. He had apparently been lost in thought.

"Since when have you started creeping through the house?" Sherlock asked accusingly.

"Since you have deafened your ears to the outside world," John replied drily, leaning his crutch against the wall by the door and taking one of the mugs in his other hand to relieve his already red skin from the heat. "I'm not creeping, Sherlock. You're just distracted. How could I be creeping with that thing on?!" With a nod of his head he pointed to the crutch and his injured leg.

The tall man slowly turned to face John, his eyes shockingly unconcealedly mirroring his inner turmoil. He was pressing his lips together, which added to the miserable and bitter expression of his overall body language. For a moment he didn't say anything; he seemed to be hesitating. John was preparing for yet another snide remark, therefore, Sherlock's next words baffled the ex-soldier.

"I've gone through it again," the Consulting Detective admitted sheepishly, having lowered his eyes and avoiding John's glance.

It was now the latter's turn to indecisively hesitate for a tick. After a brief moment, however, he forced himself to limp up to his friend, holding the cuppa out to him.

"I heard you, Sherlock. I wasn't joking when I said you'd been screaming and calling for your brother for a couple of hours. - Wanna talk?" John tried carefully.

The Consulting Detective reached for the mug and took a sip, his concentration apparently utterly focussed on the drinking process. On the second sip he threw John a glance over the rim of the mug as if he was assessing John as to whether he could entrust his flatmate with the experiences of his abduction. In the very back of his mind, John was slightly hurt by the look, although he knew that Sherlock wasn't one for blurting out matters of emotion to anyone, particularly not when he was the one suffering from them.

"You could wait for Mycroft instead, if you want," the doctor offered.

For a minute, Sherlock's glance seemed to be turned inwards before he focussed again on John, apparently ignoring John's remark.

"I don't think word can express ...," he started saying very quietly, but let the sentence trail off, clasping his hands helplessly. This was a gesture so boyish and insecure that for a split second John rather saw the child Sherlock in front of him.

"... the terror?" he tried to help out. "Look, Sherlock, you're talking to an ex-army doctor, invalided home, suffering from PTSD – and I think that's pretty much what you're suffering from as well –, struggling through psychotherapy, so, don't tell me how hard it is to express the terrible experiences and the numbing feelings that come along with them. It's worth giving it a try, though, you know?" John leaned to the doorframe, taking a sip of his tea and watching Sherlock attentively. "I think we've already had this kind of talk."

Sherlock had turned back towards the window, showing no reaction. John wasn't even sure if he had grasped what he had just said. He should probably give him some rest. When he was just about to retreating reluctantly, realising that Sherlock wouldn't talk to him, the Consulting Detective whispered, "I was... so... cold."

John could hear the effort it took Sherlock to say these few words. He knew from his own war experiences that it really wasn't easy to say what had happened and to put any of the emotions into words. He didn't dare moving, his cup of tea raised half way to his mouth, afraid of ruining the first weak attempt of Sherlock's to talk about his abduction.

Sherlock didn't say anything for some time and John could only hear his strenuous breathing. It was obvious that he was very upset, the breaths becoming shorter and more ragged, and at some point John realised that Sherlock was sobbing. The older man was tempted to walk up to him and comfort him, however, he wasn't sure about how Sherlock would react, if he even wanted to have someone trying to physically comfort him, so he just stood and waited. His leg started hurting and he wanted to move, but still he remained in the exact position that he was in. The Consulting Detective had hunched his shoulders and only the occasional shaking showed that he still hadn't regained his composure.

"There must be something abnormal about me that I didn't suffer from claustrophobia or any other phobias after that." Sherlock resumed talking after blowing his nose and wiping away the tears, still his back turned on his flatmate. Normally, Sherlock didn't bother with other people's opinions about him or with what was considered normal, but John thought that it had probably been different in his youth when everyone had tried to find out why he had been so different from other children.

"You couldn't remember, Sherlock, so I assume, you couldn't develop any of the phobias." John added carefully.

"Maybe..." Sherlock mumbled distractedly. Sherlock's jumps in thoughts could be somewhat frustrating when they were trying to solve cases, for instance, but John knew that he had to be very patient now and that it didn't matter whether Sherlock actually listened to him, as long as he kept talking.

"He looked so... evil, John. You know I'm not good at reading faces, much better though today than as a child, but that look... it was... pure..." Sherlock was struggling to find the word that would fit. "...hatred," he finished the sentence, and John felt an unpleasant tickle at the small of his neck.

"Actually, I don't know if it was hatred, but I had never seen it before," he went on, "I ran, you know, but like in a classical nightmare, I was too slow. He caught me and for a moment I remember I was convinced I was about to... die. I didn't want to die. I wanted to get away, but there was the rag over my face, Chloroform, and I knew I wouldn't be able to escape. And do you know what was worst? I knew nobody would come looking for me..."

The ex-army doctor knew that Sherlock was wrong. All the talks he had had with Mycroft had revealed one thing very clearly: all the time the older Holmes had taken care of his much younger brother, protected him, rescued him, had a careful eye on him. He hadn't been alone, but apparently the bloody Holmes-typical aloofness had left the child Sherlock insecure of his family bonds and, thus, of their support and love. John wanted to say something, but apparently the mental throwback to the events of the abduction and their processing had started: The words were pouring from Sherlock's mouth, sometimes as a coherent and sober summary of the incident, sometimes ragged confessions of his churned emotional state, sometimes just bitter sobs and sometimes even outbursts of ungovernable anger. John stood and listened, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg, forgetting about the tea in his mug that was getting cold. He felt as if he was nailed to the spot, unable to move, taking in what his flatmate was confiding to him.

The images caused by Sherlock's graphic descriptions were crawling into John's consciousness, leaving cold traces on his skin and making his hair stand on end. He knew about methods of torture as they had been trained in the Army to endure them, but these were the descriptions of a child being tortured for John didn't see the adult Sherlock anymore but the suffering child. He felt a lump forming in his throat and tears welling in his eyes. The doubts he had had about Mycroft taking action in deleting his brother's memories of the abduction were dissolving into nothingness. It was almost unbearable to simply envision what Sherlock had gone through, and he could only vaguely guess what it had been like when the child had returned, broken by the torture, physically and mentally on the verge of an abyss.

John didn't know how long they had been standing there, Sherlock facing the window, he himself watching his back. He hadn't felt much apart from the pain that was Sherlock's. When the Consulting Detective ended, they still didn't move, but John perceived distantly that his leg had gone completely numb. And yet, it didn't matter – not now. He was still leaning against the doorframe and clinging to the mug that just was now as cold as his hands were. John was shivering slightly and his heart was beating violently. Sherlock was standing absolutely still, the sobs slowly subsiding, and after a while John could hear just his regular and seemingly calm breaths.

The doctor cleared his throat in order to say some soothing words, when Sherlock turned around slowly. His view, however, only rested on John briefly before focussing on something behind him and his eyes narrowing to slits.

"How long have _you_ been standing there?!"

"Long enough, brother dear," Mycroft replied, an unfamiliar tone of sadness and softness in his voice.

John shot around, forgetting about his leg, which wouldn't follow his too quick movement, so that the doctor tripped and lost balance. The mug flew through the hall, the remaining cold tea spurting everywhere before clattering on the floor. Mycroft intrepidly caught John, putting him back to his feet and giving him one of his particular artificial smiles.

"Now, now, John. What a tumultuous welcome."

"Damn, Mycroft! I _will_ install a set of locks at our flat door if you don't stop sneaking in! Jesus!" John scolded.

"Do you think that would keep me out?" Mycroft asked patronizingly, pouting his lips as if he was in fact contemplating it. "I don't think so," he stated after a brief moment, adding yet another fake smile.

"I need to sit down," John grumbled, throwing a glance at the mess in the hall, and limping to the living-room. He would take care of it later.

The ex-soldier sensed that it was probably time for him to retreat for a while. At some point of his terrifying report Sherlock had apparently forgotten whom he had been talking to. He had just spoken from his heart and, therefore, revealed to John that brother Mycroft had meant a lot more to him that he nowadays was willing to admit. Thus, the siblings had to talk openly and hopefully overcome their tenacious childish feud – eventually.

John dropped into his armchair by the fireplace, closing his eyes and trying to order his thoughts. He couldn't hear the brothers speak, so they had probably shut the door to Sherlock's room. Many loose ends of Sherlock's personality seemed to shift into place in the view of his experiences and the memory deletion. The Consulting Detective hadn't been able to recall the caring side to his brother's personality, he only remembered being left behind by him, and all Mycroft's struggles of keeping a careful eye on his brother so that no harm could be done to him, had thus been mostly misinterpreted as patronizing.

John's thoughts were suddenly interrupted when he heard Mycroft say:

"So,... little brother. How are you now?"

Apparently, they had neither shut the door nor had they talked already. John wasn't sure if he really wanted to witness their talk, but at the same time he didn't feel like getting up and strenuously crawling up the stairs to his room. Therefore, he just stayed.

"So,... big brother. Caring is not an advantage, huh?" Sherlock returned, imitating Mycroft.

"Depends, really, Sherlock. I couldn't have let you die – imagine how upset Mummy would have been."

Sherlock huffed. "Mummy, yes. - I... never..." He was apparently searching for the right words, "... said thank you."

"No, of course not. I wouldn't have expected it anyway, Sherlock. And I don't expect it now."

"Didn't think you would." Sherlock mumbled, almost unintelligible for John. "Still, - thank you."

"Are you getting sentimental now, brother mine?" Mycroft wanted to know, and John could visualise the raised eyebrows of the older Holmes and the edges of his mouth turned up, his head slightly tilted.

"I guess I've really had my trip on emotions today."

"Don't get addicted then. - Will you cope?"

"Actually, Mycroft, John was right. Talking does help a little."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Either Sherlock meant it or he simply wanted to get rid of Mycroft.

"If you need my help, little brother, let me know." Mycroft offered.

"Whatever help that could be, I wonder," Sherlock muttered and John grinned. One particularly astonishing thing about the Holmes brothers, and especially Sherlock, was that one second they could be charming, sentimental (although they would never admit it) and amiable, and in the very next second they could be the most remarkable gits the sun had ever shone on.

"Do me a favour, Mycroft. – Next time knock, if you don't want to be shot some day because John mistook you as a burglar. He can sometimes be a bit touchy, you know?"

John heard Mycroft's snorting. "Imagine what would happen if I was found in your flat with a bullet from an illegal army weapon in my body that could easily be traced back to John. You and John had better put up with me calling on you every now and then, Sherlock."

Steps could be heard and seconds later Mycroft nodded his good-bye to John, swinging his umbrella in a well-practised, determined movement.


	31. A visitor

"Was that it?" John asked, observing Sherlock questioningly. The Consulting Detective had more or less staggered to the living-room and dropped onto the sofa, curling up and wrapping himself in his dressing gown. He was facing John, however, his eyes were shut.

"Was that what?" he mumbled rather disinterestedly. It appeared to John that he was on the verge of sleep, apparently utterly exhausted, which wasn't a great surprise. Sherlock hadn't slept much lately, and even the world's only Consulting Detective, who despised sleep as merely "transport", needed some rest after all that had happened.

"That ... conversation. With Mycroft."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in apparent confusion, opening his eyes and looking at the older man.

"You should have talked to him properly," John stated, unable to hide the slight tone of reproach in his voice.

"I _did_ talk to him, John, I even _thanked_ him," Sherlock replied, still looking at his flatmate with a frown.

"What I'm trying to say..."

"... is that you're disappointed ." Sherlock finished the sentence for John.

"I'm not disappointed, Sherlock!" the doctor replied hastily, although he sensed that the younger man wasn't all that wrong.

"I can tell from the accusing undertone in your voice and the particular line that forms between your brows each time that you are disappointed."

John felt caught. He had expected that, eventually, Mycroft and Sherlock would talk and overcome their difficulties now that the younger of the brothers remembered what the older one had meant and done for him. Mycroft had listened to Sherlock's heart-wrenching report of his abduction, but hadn't shown any genuine reaction. John simply hadn't expected such a superficial conversation. Yes, he was disappointed.

"You had expected a tearful family reunion. But, John, we're not like that."

John snorted, pulling up one corner of his mouth in a humourless grin.

"Yeah, I know."

"Live with it," Sherlock added, closing his eyes and signalling the end of the conversation.

"I would, Sherlock, if it was true," John went on, "I really have to acknowledge one very special attribute that you and your brother master so perfectly..."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, opening one eye and throwing a mildly intrigued glance at his flatmate. "Which of the many do you mean?"

"No, Sherlock, seriously. You are masters in denying your humanness. You're constantly trying to keep up a disguise. However, as a certain someone has pointed out to you once, a disguise is only convincing as long as it doesn't cover too much of your own self. Remember?" John pursed his lips for a second, remembering the very confusing and quite awkward moment at Irene Adler's house, the woman herself welcoming them in nothing but high-heels that didn't quite manage to draw even a tiny bit of their attention to them.

"You and your brother, Sherlock, you are not less human than anyone else. Live with it!"

Sherlock had just opened his mouth for a reply when the doorbell rang – and kept ringing.

"Doorbell," the Consulting Detective stated plainly, visibly relieved to be spared the bother of replying.

"I can hear it," John muttered. "Do you want to wait until it just happens to stop? If it ever does..."

Apparently only now did Sherlock realise that it would probably not be too clever an idea to wait until John openedthe door. He swung his feet from the sofa, using the momentum to bring his body into an upright position. Grimacing, he pushed himself from the sofa, again swaying dangerously and all colour vanishing from this already pale face.

John wondered how long the pain relief would last before Sherlock was haunted by his allodynia again. It was hard to tell, despite his general knowledge about the common dosage and effect of lidocaine, but he had never treated this exact condition before, plus, Sherlock was always good for a surprise.

The pale man had managed to remain standing on his feet and shuffled to the door, muttering something about Mrs Hudson and Mycroft not being there when they were really needed.

As, courtesy of Mycroft's hackers, Sherlock's website and John's blog had messages on them that neither of the two was available for cases or anything else, it was unlikely that the visitor was a client. It didn't take long, though, until John could hear a familiar voice chattering, sometimes stuttering: Molly was paying them a visit.

Upon entering the living-room, she waved her hand and gestured into the direction of the hallway where Sherlock was still muttering and a strenuous "Urgh" could be heard before the bell finally stopped ringing.

"Hi, John,... um, I'm sorry, the bell just didn't ..." She clasped her hands.

"Sherlock must have fidgeted with it again. No worries, Molly. It's nice that you've come around."

"So, Molly, we have met before, haven't we? At my brother's house, right?" Sherlock had appeared in the room, walking slowly past her and flopping onto the sofa again. After screwing up his face, he smiled at her.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, highly alarmed by the Consulting Detective's reaction.

Molly was startled. "What? What's wrong?"

Sherlock got in ahead of John. "Nothing, Molly. John is just a bit over-worried." Turning to John, he added, "I'm absolutely fine, John. No need to worry." His intonation was slightly exaggerated, so John understood that apparently Sherlock was just pretending that he had lost his memories again. The doctor was irritated.

"I quickly have to check whether your condition allows you to have a visitor. Let's do the little examination in your room, Sherlock. Doctor's orders!" he announced with gritted teeth.

"No, I'm fi..."

"Doctor's orders!" John exclaimed, leaving no room for negotiation.

The two men limped and staggered to Sherlock's room, leaving an entirely confused Molly behind.

"Shall I...?" she asked weakly, pointing into the direction of the front door.

"... put the kettle on, yes, thank you, Molly." John shouted over his shoulder before he shut the door behind him, leaning heavily to it and scrutinising his flatmate, who stood opposite him, looking at him innocently with raised eyebrows.

"So, Sherlock, what's this about?"

His fury was doing battle with a sense of concern for his friend's well-being. After all, Sherlock had been through a lot and it was always possible that he really _had_ temporarily lost his memory once more. Perhaps Molly's reappearance had triggered something?

"What do you mean?" he probed.

John was enraged. "Yet another attempt at giving me a heart-attack, because I thought you had relapsed! What's this "acting memory loss" about, Sherlock?" The doctor hissed, his voice dangerously low.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, obviously contemplating what he was going to say to the furious doctor.

"Nothing. It's nothing," he then chose to say, and John inhaled sharply before holding his breath for a couple of seconds. He then shook his head angrily, letting out the air in resignation.

"I'm not going to play along, mate! Whatever sick game of yours it is to leave Molly thinking you still hadn't regained your memories, I'm not in! It's mean and ruthless!"

"Those are not unfamiliar attributes to describe my personality, John. I'll cope with that."

Despite his temporary disability, John was about to jump at Sherlock and punch him in the face straight away. Sometimes his rage threatened to get the better of him. However, Sherlock raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"She knows something."

John was baffled. "I assume she knows a lot, but I guess you're referring to something particular."

"She met Mycroft and she knows something about the shot."

"What – _Molly_? Don't be so ridiculous!" The idea of mild-mannered nervous little Molly Hooper acting as Mycroft's spy seemed so unlikely that he almost laughed out loud. Apart from anything else, when had Mycroft got the chance to know Molly well enough? Before his and Sherlock's accident, they had hardly even met. Perhaps Sherlock _had_ gone a little crazy.

But as if to remind John that he was actually getting better, the consulting detective showed a hint of his old arrogant manner. "Oh, come on John, even you can't be that dense. It's _obvious_."

"You know, Sherlock Holmes, sometimes I really miss the time you had lost your memories", John ranted, angry about the fact that it wasn't all that obvious to him once more.

Realizing what had slipped off his tongue, he looked at the Consulting Detective, slightly shocked and condemning himself for not being able to control his fury.

"Nonono! No. I... didn't mean it. I just wanted to say that... it's... sometimes hard to follow you."

His words, however, seemed to have hit Sherlock at least a bit for he was standing on the spot for a moment, his face blank. When he came to life again, he just virtually wiped away the tension that was hanging above them with a sweep of his hand.

"She's nervous. Molly. She was nervous when she visited us at Mycroft's house, but this now is different. She came here by taxi – I saw it down the street. Molly hadn't opened her handbag. It has buttons that take a while to be opened – she didn't pay. Although the taxi was free, the driver didn't stop to take the passenger hailing it; ergo, one of Mycroft's men drove it. She met Mycroft and she is even more nervous than normal: she knows something she's been sworn not to tell us. Since Mycroft knows that, no matter what my physical state may be, I would go after the shooter's employer, I'm convinced it has to do with it."

Sherlock seemed to be quite satisfied with his deduction, although it seemed as if he hadn't actually spoken to John rather than to himself.

"So, what's your scheme, Sherlock? As far as I get it, you're about to manipulate Molly to tell you what you want to know by pretending you still hadn't regained your memories? Don't you think Mycroft would have told her that your memories are back?"

"No, because he uses her to spy on us – she isn't aware of it, of course - and it works better, at least this once, when she's worried and doesn't know that I remember everything."

"Holmes logic," John stated drily. "So, you two are both trying to play with Molly. Do you think it's fair?"

"It serves a purpose."

"Sodding bastards, you are then, Sherlock! She doesn't deserve it! She's your friend and you're just manipulating her in whatever way you want. Do what you want, but I'm not getting involved in this!"

"John, you don't understand..."

"Sherlock, you know what? I don't care!" John clenched his fists, trying to control is anger. "I really don't understand; that's right!" he hissed, turning towards the door.

Sherlock strode up to him surprisingly fast, blocking his way. "Ten minutes, and then I'll tell her."

John looked into his friend's face. His expression was difficult to read, but John thought that his eyes seemed to be displaying a plea that he couldn't just ignore. He wasn't happy to be dragged into a competition of taking advantage of Molly.

"Ten minutes, and not a second longer! Whatever bloody information you want to get from her!"

Sherlock gave John a short but intense look, and John caught a glimpse of the fire that he hadn't seen in his friend's eyes for quite a while. He was enjoying the prospect of acting in front of Molly!

John left the room behind Sherlock, who walked very slowly by his standards. Was he in pain again? In fact, a little devil in John's heart told him that the Consulting Detective deserved some pain for his treatment of Molly's. The doctor pushed away the thought and followed Sherlock into the living-room, cursing about having forgotten his crutch in his fury.

Molly was sitting on the sofa.

"Tea is ready," she stated the obvious, pointing to the mugs on the table in front of her and smiling insecurely.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock replied, sitting down on the sofa next to her but ignoring the tea. John noticed that he had briefly screwed up his face; so he was in pain.

"How...are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you, Molly." Sherlock said lightly, smiling at the woman by his side.

"Good, um ..., I just thought I'd drop by and, um, well,..." she stammered, and John realised that Sherlock had been right. She was extremely nervous.

All of a sudden, Sherlock flinched and a constrained moan escaped his lips.

"Are you all right, Sherlock?" Molly wanted to know, glancing at him worriedly. "Just... as all right as..."

"I'm fine." the Consulting Detective hissed, interrupting her, and Molly stared at him, puzzled.

John had been slowly moving towards his armchair, but didn't give in to its appealing promise of sitting down and resting his leg. Instead, he picked up his crutch and made his way to the kitchen in order to prepare another injection for Sherlock.

"It's nice that you come looking after us. How have you been doing since we met last time?" Sherlock tried to make conversation; however, John could very well hear now that it took him a lot of effort and he was surprised about how fast the painkillers were losing effect.

The doctor listened to the slightly awkward talk between Molly and Sherlock, wondering whether the Consulting Detective's acting skills had suffered from his physical state. He had seen better performances and he felt genuine sympathy for Molly, who didn't have the faintest clue as to what Sherlock was doing with her.

He learnt otherwise, dropping the syringe with the combination of different analgesics from surprise, shooting round to look at the scene, when Molly, very calmly and matter-of-factly stated,

"Sherlock Holmes, I don't know what you're aiming at, but if again you're trying to use my... my... my crush on you to take advantage of me, you're barking up the wrong tree!"

Molly stood up from the sofa, looking down at Sherlock, whose mouth was standing open in utter amazement, almost yelling,

"You're a fascinating man, but all the same sickening! I know that kind of talk – with or without lost memories – and it always leads to you manipulating me. I took care of you when you were helpless and nearly dead and I really think I deserve a tad more respect from you! So, whatever it is that you want from me, tell me, but don't pussyfoot around it!"

John couldn't avoid a "See?!" full of schadenfreude, grinning inwardly and admiring Molly for her courage. It had been long overdue that she put Sherlock in his place.

Sherlock was motionless, scrutinizing Molly with alternating frowns and raised eyebrows. Apparently, he was trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He wasn't used to losing the upper hand.

The young woman sat back down, taking her mug and sipping at the tea without averting her gaze from the still flabbergasted Consulting Detective. She took Sherlock's mug that was still sitting on the table, untouched, offering it to him.

"So, tea then? Or do you want me to go?" she wanted to know. John was intrigued. This situation was indeed getting interesting and he was curious about how Sherlock would manoeuvre himself out.

The younger Holmes, defeated, finally replied "Tea," stretching out his hand slowly. A split-second before Sherlock took the mug, John realised that his allodynia was returning and that most likely the heat of the mug had to feel like a red-hot piece of coal in his hand. He wanted to shout a warning, but it was too late. Sherlock yelped in pain, dropping the cuppa, the tea soaking his dressing gown and pyjama. He gasped, his face all screwed up.

Molly jumped from reflex, trying to escape the splash of hot liquid, looking utterly confused. She wanted to hectically assist Sherlock taking off his wet dressing gown, but he backed away from her as if she could burn him as well. She apparently didn't know about the Consulting Detective's poor condition, so she couldn't interpret his reaction.

"Molly," John intervened, "just leave him."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! - I thought you had it! I'm sooo sorry, Sherlock. Shit!..." she stammered, holding up her hands apologetically.

"Molly," John tried to interrupt her, but she kept apologizing frantically.

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, looking at the baffled woman intently with dark eyes. The pupils had dilated from the pain. John hurried to fill a fresh syringe while instructing Molly to gingerly help Sherlock out of the dressing gown and the pyjama top.

Sherlock moaned he could do it himself, but his attempt at doing so taught him otherwise. With a painful groan he gave in reluctantly and Molly assisted the tall man, not without being scolded for her roughness.

"Sherlock, be fair!" John reminded him, limping back into the living-room, the syringe in his hand.

Molly was apparently too baffled to question what was going on, standing next to Sherlock, the wet dressing gown in her hands, staring at it with her mouth slightly open.

"Ok, Sherlock, you have to pull down your pyjama bottoms a bit for me. Actually, best would be, you'd drop them completely so that you can change into something fresh and dry."

"No," was Sherlock's curt answer.

"I can't do an IV injection. My hands aren't steady enough – and, although I'm sometimes not all that sure about it, I don't want to kill you. Plus, you can't stand there with your soaked clothes on. If you don't want to cooperate, then _walk_ to your room with the wet cloth of your pyjamas _rubbing_ your skin, _touch_ the door handle and _push_ it down, take them off there, find yourself something dry and try if that works with your skin!" John replied, a slightly mischievous smile on his face, knowing that every single step would be hell for his flatmate. He was losing patience a bit. It wasn't good that Sherlock hadn't said anything before. The pain memory made it more difficult to suppress the newly arising pain and he could only hope that the dose he had prepared would be sufficient to bring his friend some relief.

Sherlock let out a quite interesting flow of curses before resigning.

"Ok, but Molly has to leave, or at least turn around."

The doctor looked at the woman and his flatmate alternatingly, both of which were slowly blushing.

"No, Sherlock. I need Molly's help. I'm quite incapacitated when it comes to using both my hands and keeping my balance. So, I need her to help you out of and back into your pyjama trousers. Don't answer back – either of you!" he ordered when he noticed Molly and Sherlock blushing even more and opening their mouths in order to object.

When Molly had regained her composure and come to life from the paralysis she had apparently fallen into, she gave Sherlock a brief smile.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, I've seen worse. – No, no! I mean, I've seen many naked men. Dead mostly – not all! Shit! I mean, don't worry, I know what men look like, dead or alive."

John couldn't avoid a laugh at Molly's awkwardness. She could be lucky that Sherlock was occupied with enduring his pain; otherwise he would have pulled her to pieces.

"Ok, you two. Let's get this over with. Molly, go to Sherlock's room and take a silken pyjama set from his wardrobe. The softest you can find."

Sherlock still hadn't completely resigned despite the pain he was in. "Don't mess up everything! I don't want to have to re-establish my cleverly devised system again!"

"Shut up, Sherlock! It's enough. If you don't want to catch a cold, be quiet!"

Molly went to fetch the fresh garment. In the meanwhile John pulled down his friend's bottoms far enough that he could inject the painkillers. He would normally slap the skin around the little injection puncture a bit, but refrained from it now. He didn't want to risk being slapped back in response to an exaggerated stimulus of the peripheral nerves in Sherlock's behind.

When Molly returned from Sherlock's room, a silken purple pair of pyjamas in her hands, John instructed her on how to assist Sherlock taking off his pants. Molly was deep red in the face, but turned out to be very clever with her hands, thanks probably to years of taking off clothes from not very supportive individuals.

The Consulting Detective was almost as red as Molly herself, although he generally didn't have any problems with showing his body. It maybe was the awkwardness of the situation that made him feel embarrassed.

The pathologist managed very well not to look at Sherlock too intensely and after a short time he was freshly dressed, however, standing as still as possible.

Molly sighed, stretching her back determinedly. "Now, you two, what's going on?"


	32. Sociopath

For a brief moment, Sherlock looked at Molly awkwardly and John decided not to say anything until Sherlock himself explained to her what was going on. He hoped that he would be honest.

"I...," he eventually started, "I am... in pain."

Molly stared at Sherlock, her face inscrutable. "I am aware, Sherlock, that you consider most people oblivious and dull, but I'm not stupid! According to your standards, I probably am, but it doesn't need your standards to see that! What pain? What's wrong with you?" Her gaze wandered from his face over his abdomen to his waist and back, and John wondered why she was so openly scrutinizing his flatmate.

"It's nothing," Sherlock tried to dismiss her worries with a wave of his hand. "I'll be fine in a minute."

"Sure? Cause I definitely can't get rid of the feeling that you're... strange. Somehow. Not just the pain. You're just not ...you!" she replied with a frown, clenching her hands somewhat nervously.

John felt awkward. It was just wrong to lie to the pathologist, to abuse her trust and friendship. However, he would keep his word and give Sherlock his time. He didn't have any idea, though, how the Consulting Detective would extract himself from this deception later without deeply hurting the woman. John hoped that Sherlock would no longer keep up his acting, and was quite annoyed to hear that in fact he did.

"But, Molly, I don't know who I am, so I don't really know what's me and what isn't," Sherlock tried to turn the talk around.

Molly pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze. "Yes,... I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's just... I...haven't got used to you, um,...not being...um, yourself." she replied remorsefully, all her self-confidence and anger vanished. "It must be terrible not being able to recall your past -who you were, how you were... I guess," she added twisting the cords of her jacked around her index finger like a jittery school girl.

John turned away from the two, so that his grim face wasn't visible to Molly. He couldn't avoid snorting quietly, however. The situation was unnerving – Molly's nervousness was unnerving, and John wondered whether he was just a bit touchy, or whether it was the aura of the young woman that made him feel that way. Could Sherlock be right after all? He busied himself with pretending to store away the medication laboriously to shut himself off from the awkwardness.

"It's ... weird. I haven't got used to it myself," Sherlock replied, the fake innocent smile on his face audible in his voice. "Thanks for your help, Molly. I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble. I'm grateful for everything you have done for me, honestly!"

"My pleasure," the young woman replied quietly.

'Bastard,' John thought angrily, knowing that Molly had fallen again for the siren that was Sherlock. He wouldn't kill her literally, like the mythological sirens killed their victims, but John was sure that this game of Sherlock's and Mycroft's wouldn't leave her unharmed, if, or rather when, she found out the truth; and he felt extremely uncomfortable about being involved in it, albeit only passively.

John had finished packing away the medicine and wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest his leg. So he limped to his armchair, dropping into it, thus involuntarily getting a glimpse of Sherlock and Molly.

They were still standing in the same spot, Sherlock most likely because any movement still caused him pain and Molly because she apparently felt slightly uneasy, the awkwardness of the situation not yet having entirely subsided.

"So, what have you been doing today?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly and smiling at Molly sweetly.

She hesitated a split-second before answering, seemingly concentrating on disentangling her fingers from the cord. "Ah, nothing interesting, really. Um, just took a little walk, some window shopping. Nothing particular, really," she replied and even John could hear that it didn't sound too convincing. The longer he listened to the two, the more doubts he developed about Molly's loyalty. The atmosphere of dishonesty in the room sickened John.

"Tell me about it. You know, I'm quite bored; John doesn't allow me to do much, and I am a bit... well, incapacitated, so I'm confined to the house and a bit sick of the walls surrounding me," the younger Holmes tweeted and the doctor snorted inwardly being made the scapegoat.

Molly looked a bit surprised. "You've only been here for a day, or so...,"

"You know...," he started, but interrupted himself, "you know, I'm just fed up with... with making myself familiar with new surroundings," Sherlock stammered and John realized that it must have been a snide remark that had almost slipped his flatmate's tongue, one that would have given away that he was acting his memory loss.

Molly briefly lay her forehead into small wrinkles of incomprehension, but then told him about a walk through the city, window shopping on Oxford Street, turning into Portland Place, walking north, having a coffee at the BBC Broadcasting House, strolling towards Regents Park, enjoying the green and finally ending up in Baker Street where she decided to pay Sherlock and John a brief visit. If Sherlock was right and she had come by taxi, she definitely was lying.

The Consulting Detective skilfully chatted with the outwardly unsuspecting Molly, who slowly regained her self-confidence, as all of a sudden she signalled Sherlock to stop chatting by raising her hand and shaking her head slightly.

Molly's gesture made John look up from the magazine he had been flicking through and he saw that she had raised her chin, looking at the taller man inquiringly.

"Sherlock? – What's really wrong with you? What's that pain? Don't tell me it's nothing. You're talking like a chatterbox, but you still haven't moved even a tad. You're not just in pain like... normal pain, are you? Tell me the truth, Sherlock!"

As if to prove her wrong, the Consulting Detective moved slowly and sat down on the sofa gingerly, patting the space next to him, signalling Molly to sit down, who followed after hesitating briefly.

"It's nothing worth mentioning, Molly."

"You think so?" she replied, frowning and giving Sherlock a suspicious look. "Well, I actually think that it's a bit unusual that apparently somebody has to help you change your pyjamas – or is it just coincidence that I happened to be here this once – is it a game of yours, spilling tea first and then forcing someone to pull down your trousers? Don't you think it's a bit weird? It's creepy – like an adolescent getting off on such behaviour."

John inhaled sharply, supressing a laugh. Molly's remarks could be surprisingly sharp and witty once she was confident about herself. Sherlock wasn't used to her shooting back verbally and it apparently bewildered him as his cheeks were blushing again ever so slightly. Mousy Molly had apparently made some progress during the last couple of weeks, remembering to stand up for herself with increasing frequency, which seemed to confuse the Consulting Detective a bit as she – and her knowledge – weren't as easily accessible as they had once been. Sherlock cleared his throat and sighed, slightly irritated.

"Yes, Molly. It is not just pain, you're right. My nociceptors and mechanoreceptors are over-stimulated, thus my skin hurts from merely the touch of the fabric of my pyjama – it's called allodynia. That's why I'm in pain and that's why... I couldn't help but embarrass myself with that bloody tea!" Sherlock had started in his sweet-talk voice, but ended with his teeth gritted. It was obvious how much he loathed his situation and obviously Molly had triggered a verbal outburst.

She had instinctively raised her hand in order to touch him in a soothing gesture only to recoil a split-second before she could cause Sherlock more pain.

"S...Sorry. I'm really sorry for that, but... Sherlock, ... erm...,"

"Why did you see Mycroft?" Sherlock interrupted her, the tone of his voice harsh and impatient, having entirely forgotten about being all nice.

Both John and Molly stared at Sherlock. The doctor was quite shocked that Sherlock had apparently lost patience. He was usually impatient, yes, but he would never just abandon a scheme for gathering wanted information. He rarely took the risk of bluntly bursting out with a question, the answer to which he had originally been sure of only obtaining through manipulation. John was convinced that it could only be to do with Sherlock's general distress.

Molly's reaction, however, surprised John at least as much as it amazed Sherlock: she stroked her opposite's cheek, but the touch didn't seem to be quite caressing, instead it was rather firm. Before Sherlock could react otherwise than screwing up his face, she slapped him, just slightly, but enough for the man to moan from the pain. It had to feel like a real bash on his over-sensitive skin. She then got up from the sofa, gathering her personal belongings and, her hand already on the door knob, turned to the Consulting Detective, her eyes shiny from tears.

"You sodding...! I should have known right away that your friendliness was just your way of taking advantage of me! Enough is enough, Sherlock! If you don't have enough backbone to be honest with me, I'm sorry, you neither deserve my help nor my friendship!" Tears were running down her cheeks now, but her voice was surprisingly steady albeit being quite shrill. She then turned to John who had been staring at her, stunned. Her voice was lower now and she was nearly hissing.

"This time, John, you have failed miserably. I never thought you'd play along with his ruthless game of manipulating people! Good-bye, you two! I'll be gone on holiday for some time and when I'm back, I won't be available for you!"

She tugged the door open and slammed it shut before either of the men could say anything.

"Well done, Sherlock! Very well done, indeed!" John spat angrily. If he hadn't been so lame he would have gone after her and clarified the situation. His loyalty towards Sherlock did have its limits.

Sherlock looked utterly confused, his hand hovering above his cheek's skin as if he wanted to rub it but remembered that it would cause him even more pain.

"That was a bit of an overreaction, wasn't it?" he stated.

John exploded. "Overreaction?! Jesus, Sherlock! This was probably your biggest sociopathic performance _ever_! Go after her!"

"Why would I?"

John was now snorting with rage.

"Yes, why would you?! - Because she's right, Sherlock! You are a sodding whatsoever and you have just chased away one of your very few friends. If you don't go after her, you're about to also chase away the other one, who has so far been willing to put up with you without much complaint. This is your business now! Go after her and apologize!"

"What for, John? For being in pain?"

Sherlock was lucky that the only item within John's immediate reach was the magazine he still had in his hand, and he thrust it into his flatmate's direction furiously.

"For causing her pain, Sherlock! You can't be so bloody thick!"

"She'll come back anyway," he remarked, and John couldn't believe that Sherlock had just turned form a nice chatty person – deliberate or not – into the most remarkable arsehole.

"Have you ever come across the idea that it doesn't always need an unfathomable scheme to obtain the information you want to have? Have you never thought about just asking? She's your friend – at least she was – and maybe, Sherlock, maybe she is on your side! Talking to her openly should have been your first choice! Keep that in mind, Sherlock: Don't. Cheat. On. Your. Friends!"

"I don't...," the Consulting Detective started.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock Holmes!" the upset doctor yelled.

The lanky man looked at him, furrowing his brow.

"Just get out of my sight! I can't stand you at the moment!"

Sherlock didn't move, but his gaze became a bit unsteady and he seemed to contemplate what to do.

"GO AWAY!" John shouted. His heart was racing from anger. This time Sherlock had gone too far. It was one thing to manipulate people generally; it was another to do it in a way that led to losing friends. If the stairs hadn't been an obstacle too difficult to overcome, he would have run – or limped – after Molly himself, but there hadn't been a chance for him to catch up on her. He needed to phone her, but he didn't want to do it in Sherlock's presence.

Apparently unable to comprehend John's rage, Sherlock slowly stood up from the sofa, walking into the direction of his room very carefully and closing the door behind him.

John clenched his fists and jaw, but his anger needed an outlet. "Fuck!" he yelled, thrusting the word after Sherlock.


	33. Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!   
> I am incredibly sorry that I haven't posted anything in ages! I was utterly absorbed in real life and couldn't find the time to write. I will make up for it by posting the rest of the story now! It's been a long and sometimes tough journey of nearly two years of writing this, but it was incredible fun as well.   
> Enjoy!

Molly rushed down the steep stairs from the flat, almost tripping. Her heart was beating wildly from disappointment and anger. She hadn't been able to stand the situation any longer. She had just accused Sherlock and John of not playing with their cards on the table, but most of her anger had come from her own bad conscience about doing just the same thing.

When she had visited Sherlock in the hospital and at Mycroft's house, she had been fine, her inexplicable crush on the Consulting Detective having subsided to a degree of friendly caring. Today, however, she had been hit again by his tall, dark and enigmatic appearance, his extraordinary paleness even adding to it. He was radiating a dark power, like the dark lord of the vampires – enticing but dangerous. Although Molly found it weird herself when considering it objectively, she was attracted to it. Well, and having to pull down his pyjama pants hadn't really helped either. Catching a glimpse of the bare skin of his back and below had been thrilling, but the situation itself had been so awkward that she hadn't been able to enjoy this moment. Above all the anger, the little female devil in her regretted having missed a chance of getting a proper look at her object of desire.

The object of desire, however, was also the reason for her despair. Although she sometimes despised herself for letting people do it, she was aware that they generally tended to take advantage of her. She had always been too helpful, wanting to please people, so she rarely said no. Especially with Sherlock, this had caused her problems every now and then, but she would rather take the risk of getting into trouble than being lonely. However hard she tried, she always fell for the wrong people; and Sherlock apparently was the lesser evil compared to her encounter with Jim Moriarty, for example. That was the reason why she tried to ignore his insults to a certain degree, just to ensure he would visit her in the lab occasionally.

However, her visits at the hospital and the talk about Sherlock's slashed wrists had given her a feeling of closeness, of a strong friendship between her and the Consulting Detective. Being put into charge of spending time with him and taking care of him, had pushed her self-conscience; and although she knew that Sherlock most likely didn't know that she knew about his apparent suicide attempt, she was hurt by the realization that he was again trying to use her. She knew it was beyond logic, but she simply couldn't help it.

If it had been merely out of interest that he had asked her about the visit at Mycroft's, why had he acted in front of her first, pretending to be interested in what she had done that day?

All of a sudden, it dawned on Molly that Sherlock had not only acted his interest in her, but also his memory loss. Why else would he avoid talking to Mycroft personally? He couldn't remember their difficulties with each other, so there would have been no reason for secretiveness!

The woman stood in the hallway of 221b, staring at the front door without actually seeing it.

What kind of game was going on there? Mycroft ordering her to keep an eye on Sherlock – to find out whether he was in danger, emotionally or physically **-** and Sherlock knowing about her meeting with his brother but not asking about it openly, was really strange. Or was it just her bad conscience that made her feel that way? She felt miserable about deceiving Sherlock – on the one hand. On the other hand, he did the same with her, so why should she feel bad about it at all? It hurt that both Holmes brothers were only playing games with her, not taking her seriously and not for a single moment taking her emotions into consideration!

Mycroft had invited her quite spontaneously for lunch at his house the day before, in fact picking her up directly from work at Barts. She had insisted that she couldn't just leave two hours early, but he had reassured her that her employer was fine with it. Being fed up with the paperwork she had been doing, she had welcomed the change in her routine. From their last meetings, when she had got to know Sherlock's brother a little better, she had found that he was quite a pleasant man, extremely educated, witty, but not too arrogant – at least not towards her. She knew, though, that he could be quite the opposite of an amiable person, peril to those who challenged him.

She had wondered why Mycroft would invite her, but he had explained that he was trying to thank her for taking care of Sherlock in the hospital. Looking back, Molly scolded herself for being that stupid. When Sherlock and John had been in the clinic, she herself had offered her help, Mycroft hadn't literally asked for it; and she was convinced that he wouldn't have asked for it but in his subtle way ordered it. She should have known that the older Holmes, just as the younger one, wouldn't say thank you with a lunch for something they just expected from other people.

And still, they had chatted and savoured an excellent meal of five courses, each finer than the previous, all elegantly served by a butler. Molly had enjoyed the luxury of the surroundings and the food, feeling like a princess in a castle, albeit not being dressed properly due to having worked in the morning. She had enjoyed Mycroft's company, who had told her anecdotes of some Holmes family members from former times. The idea of earlier Sherlocks and Mycrofts in 17th century dresses had made her laugh and she had suggested that Mycroft could hold a fancy dress party some time which, however, had only been commented on by a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic "Imagine what fun Sherlock would have...".

Only when they had finished eating, did the older Holmes reveal what Molly now perceived as his real intentions for inviting her for lunch. The general question of regularly checking on Sherlock hadn't held anything unusual, but the smile and the look that followed it, had sent a shiver down Molly's spine. Mycroft had been all courteous, but his gaze had transmitted a lot more that wouldn't allow objection; and the tiny question whether she loved her job had made her blood freeze.

The young woman knew instantly that her task wasn't to just check on the flatmates, particularly on Sherlock, but to literally spy on them and report everything suspicious to Mycroft – and all of a sudden, she had then felt like a princess fallen out of favour with the king. Explaining it with his own lack of time, Mycroft had told her that, as much as he would have preferred it, he couldn't do it himself. He had referred to their talk about Sherlock's slashed wrists in the hospital and had appealed to her understandable desire that he not do any further harm to himself, and, most importantly, he wanted to know what his younger brother was up to. He had told her that she would be picked up by a taxi the day after and driven to Baker Street. If she happened to meet Mycroft there, she wasn't supposed to say anything about their lunch. He thanked her for the pleasant time they had spent together, taking her hand into his and blowing a breath of a kiss on its back.

Molly felt as if she had just fallen from heaven, hitting the grounds of reality hard. She was wondering now why she still kept putting up with the Holmes brothers. The scales had suddenly fallen from her eyes when she had realised that Sherlock was doing the exact same thing with her as his brother was and neither of them was really interested in her as a person. Damn her feeling guilty about betraying Sherlock! He did nothing else with her! Molly felt as if two forces were pulling at her in different directions, threatening to tear her apart. In future, she would, for her own sake, avoid Sherlock, Mycroft – and John.

She knew she was a bit slow sometimes when it came to reading people. She always believed in the best of everyone, and was, therefore, often disappointed to realise that again she had been wrong. John, however, was such an honest man, decent and modest, that she had never thought he would play along with Sherlock without the wink of an eye. Although..., had he really? The thought struck her now in her subconscious. John was extremely loyal, and there had been the awkward moment at the beginning of her visit when the two men had retreated to Sherlock's room for his supposed examination. Contemplating it now, Molly had a vague idea that probably she had done John wrong and he was as much a victim of the twisted machinations of the Holmes brothers as she was herself.

Anyway, she wouldn't enter this house again. It was best for her – and for her professional career – to not risk putting up with Sherlock Holmes anymore. And yet, the thought hurt and the tears kept flowing down her cheeks when she opened the front door of 221B, bumping into Mrs Hudson forcefully, who dropped the keys she had apparently just been about to push into the lock, stumbling backwards. Molly was just quick-witted enough to catch her and hold on to the door frame so that they didn't both tumble over.

"Molly, dear! In such a rush?" Mrs Hudson was straightening her coat, collecting herself.

The young woman could only snivel, trying to smile beneath her tears.

"What's wrong, love? Is anything wrong with the boys? Oh, no! Tell me what's wrong!" Her voice was turning panic-stricken and her eyes were wide open. Molly realised that she was expecting really bad news. She shook her head and with ragged breath reassured her that – as far as she could tell – they were quite ok.

"But you aren't," the old lady stated, scrutinizing the pathologist's face. "Come in, I'll make you a cuppa and you tell me what's wrong."

Molly resigned, giving Mrs Hudson a hand with her suitcase. She was led into the tiny kitchen, dropping on the first available chair. Sherlock and John's landlady shrugged off her coat after putting on the kettle and told Molly to stay where she was. She rushed out of the kitchen and returned within seconds without her coat. While busying herself with preparing a pot of tea, laying the table with the tea china and conjuring up some biscuits from her cupboard, she encouraged the upset woman to tell her what was bothering her.

Molly was moved. She had always liked Mrs Hudson, but now she could imagine why even Sherlock was so fond of her. Her motherliness was disarming and made one want to tell her all one's sorrows instantly.

Molly blew her nose and sighed, studying the blooming rose that was painted at the bottom of her tea cup. She briefly contemplated the sense of having a picture at the bottom of a cup as most of the time one wouldn't even be able to see it. She sighed.

"It's Mycroft and Sherlock – and John," she said, adding the last name more quietly. "As long as they want something from you – from me – they make me feel like...like... a princess. But in reality, it's all well-schemed and cold deliberation! I'm so fed up with people thinking they can take advantage of me easily and drop me afterwards! And I even had a bad conscience!"

The young woman burst into sobs, feeling miserable and lonely.

"Shush, dear, it'll all be fine." Mrs Hudson comforted her, pouring her a cup of steaming tea before handing her a fresh tissue. "Now one thing after the other. What are the boys doing and why do you have a bad conscience? You know, I've been away for a couple of days, so I'm not up-to-date."

Over-sweetening her tea with sugar and stirring it, completely lost in thought, she described the incidents that had taken place since the day before. She felt relieved to be able to tell somebody, who would understand her, about all that. Her talking was only interrupted by her occasional sobs and by two text alerts from her mobile phone, which she ignored at first. When she had just finished talking and the third time her mobile made a heart-wrenching "MEOW!" Mrs Hudson intervened.

"Someone seems to have an urgent desire to communicate with you, love. Or have you just forgotten about a cat that you are carrying in your back pocket and that you're now sitting on?"

Although the old lady had asked it with a serious face, Molly couldn't withhold an involuntary laugh.

"Sorry, ... um, it's my text alert, but I don't feel like... like reading them," she replied, a fresh tear running down her cheek. With red-rimmed eyes she looked at Sherlock and John's landlady. "It can only be them."

Mrs Hudson pushed her chair close to Molly's, sitting down on it and taking her hand into hers. "Listen, love, Sherlock is just the way he his, outwardly cold-hearted and ruthless, but even he can learn from his mistakes – at least sometimes. It's mean what they're doing to you, absolutely no doubt. But if it's him texting you, you should probably just give it a chance. As for Mycroft... I don't know. He's so... snooty! He really blows my top! And yet, I'm sure he has a heart, too."

The young woman sighed deeply. "And John? Why does he play along? I thought he was honest!"

"Oh, John. I think he's loyal in the first place. – Molly, you're important to them, both of them, believe me. And I absolutely agree that they should be taught a lesson in honesty and apologizing. So, I suggest you stay here and read your texts while I go unpacking some of my stuff. Have another tea and then we'll see."

Molly looked down on the wrinkled hand, covered with age spots, yet not having lost anything of its elegance and strength. "Ok," she whispered, watching a tear that had fallen onto the back of the hand holding hers. Mrs Hudson patted her hand determinedly before getting up and leaving the kitchen, cheerfully humming. Molly couldn't understand how she could be all happy when she was just sad.

She fumbled for her mobile, digging in the depth of her too big handbag and condemning her obsession with carrying everything with her that one could possibly need, like hand-wipes, samples of sunscreen, hand balm, some instant shoe polish, plaster, a mini measuring stick, two different lipsticks with colour, lip balm without colour, a notebook, two pens in case one wouldn't write anymore, safety-pins, a brush, keys, all kinds of bonus cards, two books to be read on the tube, her purse, the wrappings of some sweets she had had weeks ago, a bottle of water and her mobile – somewhere. It was annoying.

Eventually, Molly's fingers felt the edges of her mobile and embraced the item before it could get lost in the depth of her handbag again, the very moment it meowed again and whirred in her grip.

"Oh, _you_!" Molly snapped at her mobile. "I should ignore you; I really should."

She opened the text message inbox and found what she had expected: four texts, one from John and three from Sherlock.

"Ok, you two, this time you need very good excuses!" She first opened John's message.

_Molly, I'm sorry. He didn't mean to hurt you. I had to promise not to say anything. I'm really sorry. Forgive me. JW_

Molly snorted quietly. John really seemed to be a victim, too – but still, the first thing he did was to defend Sherlock's actions. She would let the doctor squirm a bit although her real anger was directed at the Consulting Detective.

"He doesn't bloody _care_ about hurting people; that's the problem, John!" she said as if the addressed man could hear her. She went on reading the messages that Sherlock had sent her.

_Molly? SH_

_Molly! SH_

_Don't be childish. SH_

"Oh, _you_!" Molly yelled at her mobile, furiously now, typing and sending a single word in return: _Dick!_

The young woman placed the phone on the desk in front of her, turning it to vibration only to avoid yet another MEOW. After a couple of quiet minutes, it suddenly buzzed and Molly jumped. She had been lost in thought, sipping her now cold and far too sweet beverage that felt almost sticky in her mouth, but she didn't bother about diluting it with some fresh, hot tea. She unlocked the screen and tapped on the message, which unfolded itself to her surprised eyes.

_Right. I'm a dick. What else? SH_

Was he really seeing sense or was it just giving in for the sake of reconciliation? If Sherlock wanted more, he could have it!

_Manipulative sod. Ruthless bonehead. Uncouth arsehole. Molly_

_That's it? SH_

_Could go on forever! Molly_

_Feel free. SH_

_Leave me alone! Molly_

_You too? SH_

_What do you mean, you too? Molly_

_That's what John said too. SH_

_Good on him! Bye, Sherlock. Molly_

_What do you mean, bye? SH_

_Think about it! Molly_

Molly put her phone back on the table, turning it on mute, so that she wouldn't be tempted to notice any further incoming texts and probably go on texting Sherlock, which would most likely make her waver in her decision. She still was very angry, but she felt her wrath melting with every received text, despite the fact that they didn't contain anything apologetic.

Since apparently he had told him off, too, her assumptions about John's role in the game were confirmed. She would stick to her plan to take a time off from the Consulting Detective and his lot, but she decided to send one more conciliatory text to John – just to let him know.

_I forgive you, but I still won't be available. Cheers, John. Molly._

_Let's go for a beer some time soon. JW_

_Maybe. Molly_

Molly dropped her phone into her bag – a good place to hide the things that she wanted to forget about, at least for a while. Instead, she dug for her notebook and the pen to leave Mrs Hudson a message that she had left and wouldn't be seen all too soon again in 221B. She scribbled down a few lines, tore the page from the notebook and got up from her chair, thrusting the writing utensils into her handbag. With a sigh, she left the kitchen, heading to the front door.


	34. A chat in the hallway

When Molly stepped into the hallway, she threw a last glance up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat – and stopped short. On the bottom stairs, there was Sherlock sitting in his silken pyjamas, his paleness contrasting the dark colours of the half-light of the stairway. He looked pretty boyish and pitiful with his legs tucked up, and Molly had to muster all her anger and strength to resist the urge to instantly forgive him his deception.

The dark, quiet baritone filled the room.

"You weren't joking, Molly, were you? You meant it seriously - that you wouldn't come back."

The woman locked eyes with the Consulting Detective, which was an incredibly tough task for her, as naturally, she would have lowered her gaze. This time, however, she wanted to be strong. Molly nodded.

"Would you stay if I apologized?"

"You aren't honest with me, Sherlock. Therefore, um..., no."

Molly could see the traces of the physical effort it had taken the younger Holmes to get down the stairs, sit there and talk to her, and the feeling of pity grew stronger in her. He _had_ been going through a lot lately, yes, and she shouldn't be so hard on him, but she felt trapped like a helpless animal, the iron ring around her throat that was the pressure put on her and the expectations in her, threatening to suffocate her.

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed a bit and he was pressing his lips together. He tilted his head, frowning at Molly.

"What do you expect from me?"

The pathologist held the glance, noticing the brightness of his eyes, the dim light, however, restricting her ability to see their colour.

"My time is wasted on you if I have to explain it." Molly replied quite coldly, fighting the urge to step up to the Consulting Detective and run her hand through his unruly hair.

Sherlock's right eyebrow shot up in amazement and he shifted a bit in his position.

"You've changed recently."

"I... just don't let people... HANG ON!" Molly felt as if a cold shower had just hit her unexpectedly. Recently? How recently? She was aware that she might appear a bit reluctant to those few people who knew her well, as she was trying not to let others influence her too much anymore, but since Sherlock's memory loss, they had only met once and it would be impossible – even for him - to judge her change from that single encounter! He remembered – and he pretended not to!

"What have you just said?" She was now staring at Sherlock, a wild fury welling in her guts.

"I said you've changed recently."

"RECENTLY?!" she yelled. "How would you _know_?" The sound of anger that came from deep down her heart sounded like a furious roar of a tiger.

"Let me...," Sherlock started, but the upset woman interrupted him, raising a hand and signalling him to stop talking.

"Oooh, I see! You were just pretending – you remember _very well_!" Clenching her fists, she screamed slightly hysterically, her anger finding an outlet in an animal yell. _"Argh! –_ There are really moments when I wish you were dead! That would save me all this bloody trouble!" Molly cried before she realised what she had said. She pressed her fist against her mouth, her gaze, that still held Sherlock's, terrified.

For the first time she could recall, the Consulting Detective gave in, lowering his eyes, and Molly wished the earth would swallow her right away. She had gone too far.

"I've tried very hard, Molly, but... I'm still here," he whispered, almost unintelligible.

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry! I...didn't mean it! Really! I know you did and I shouldn't have said this!"

Sherlock looked up, frowning.

"What do you know?" he asked suspiciously.

Molly stared at him for a moment, still feeling guilty about her remark. One should never ever lose control so much like she had just done, however hurt one may be. And still, she felt some of her confidence return.

Molly dropped her bag that she had so far clung to, taking a step forward towards the man on the steps. She took his left hand into hers, turning the palm up and exposing the thin but visible red line on his wrist. Sherlock didn't put up resistance, only looked at Molly intently.

"Your suicide attempt."

The Consulting Detective raised his eyebrows. "Suicide attempt? I would never..."

"Wouldn't you, huh? What's that scar then?" Molly said softly.

Sherlock wrested his hand from her grip. "It was an accident, accidental, without any intention."

Now it was Molly's turn to raise her eyebrows.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I wasn't... ok, but I had absolutely no intention to kill myself."

"Really? Why should I believe you now, Sherlock? Tell me just one reason! You lie to me whenever it is suitable for you, deceive me and take advantage of me, so why should I even _care_?" Molly burst out again. Her emotions were suddenly boiling over. On the one hand, she only wanted to help Sherlock get better, knowing that he was in emotional trouble himself and clearly seeing his physical struggle, but on the other hand, she was exasperated with being made everybody's marionette.

Sherlock remained silent and Molly huffed in exasperation, stretching out her hand to grab her bag in order to leave, but a sudden firm grip around her arm prevented it.

"Molly, I'm sorry."

The angry woman tried to shake off the Consulting Detective's hand. "No, Sherlock! Not this time. You and your bloody brother only want to use me, but I've had enough of it! You even pretended that you had still lost your memories when you haven't! Bastard!"

Sherlock got up arduously from his uncomfortable seat, stepping up close to Molly. She could perceive his scent and the grip around her arm becoming loose, almost tender. She felt her anger dissolve slowly, although she fought against it. This time she didn't want to give in. When his eyes locked with hers, she could see that the pupils were extremely dilated, black, dangerous pools. Molly tried to stay calm and told herself that this effect was most likely caused by the dim light, the drugs and the pain and had absolutely nothing to do with her.

"I'm sorry, Molly. Forgive me," he said, and the unusual softness of his voice touched a chord with her, making her resistance melt instantly. Due to the turmoil within her, she was unable to say anything and she felt as if she was drowning in those eyes.

_Blink, Molly, or you're lost!_ her subconscious told her.

They were just standing there for a while, their gazes entwined. Molly tried to see behind those eyes to find out what Sherlock's real intentions were, but she couldn't see anything but pain, and she eventually managed to blink, avert her eyes and muster all her remaining willpower.

"I've heard this before, Sherlock. Do you really think you can go on hurting people, manipulating them just as you like, then apologize and everything's okay again? It doesn't work. Not anymore. I pitied you because you were so... weak and... helpless. But you aren't anymore, you're just pretending it! You still haven't understood the concept of friendship – it includes honesty, Sherlock! That's all I expect from you. You don't have to be nice and charming; you only have to be honest with me. You know, Sherlock, maybe one day you might need the help of your friends, but if you carry on like this, you won't have any anymore!"

"Why would I need anybody's help?"

" _Because you're getting yourself into trouble all the time!_ Dammit! You've proven that a lot lately!" the furious woman yelled, stomping her foot in rage.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, letting go of her arm completely and closing his eyes. Only then did Molly realize that with her strong shoes she had hit the man's barefooted toe without even noticing it. She resisted the first impulse to apologize and laugh, instead she turned around, grabbing for her bag again.

"Will you be honest with me, too, Molly?" the Consulting Detective asked behind her back and the pathologist stopped in the middle of her movement. That hit. She had always been truthful with Sherlock, only this once had his brother's power forced her to be dishonest. She hadn't done it deliberately, like Sherlock, that was why this question hurt so much. She slowly returned to the tall man, who was still standing at the foot of the stairs, his face screwed up in pain, drops of sweat visible around his hairline.

"I know that your brother doesn't have that effect on you, but have you got the faintest idea what – for a normal person like me – it means to be intimidated by someone with a power like Mycroft's?" she hissed, "I... had no choice – but you had!"

To Molly's surprise, Sherlock stepped even closer, leaning in to her and whispering in her ear, "Let's be friends again, Molly Hooper. I would miss you."

Her knees threatened to buckle from the whiff of his breath at her ear and again Molly had to struggle to catch a clear thought. This was terrible. She was aware that Sherlock knew the means to make every woman melt – and used them deliberately. Although her heart was pounding and a part of her enjoyed the tall man's endeavours to regain her favour, she desperately tried to keep the upper hand in this skirmish. She took a step back.

"You, Sherlock Holmes, only miss people because you need them to get what you want," she spat. "You don't understand anything about being friends!"

"Then you should teach me. You want me to be honest? Ask me anything you want to know and I will tell you the truth," Sherlock offered, slightly provocatively.

Molly raised her eyebrows, tilting her head and looking at the Consulting Detective quizzically.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Molly contemplated which questions she could ask, and at least a hundred came to her mind instantly. However, she wasn't sure if she really wanted to know all the answers after all. For the time being, she decided to ask just one thing of him:

"I have many questions, but not all at once. This one, however, is the one that I want an honest answer to now: Will you be truthful to me, Sherlock?"

Molly didn't know if it was just wishful thinking, or if she had really seen a glimpse of admiration in Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes," was his plain answer before suddenly the man in front of her swayed, his knees giving in under him. He stretched out his hand for the wall to hold on to, but couldn't keep himself upright. Molly jumped forwards, grabbing his arm and laying it around her neck to support him to help Sherlock sit down on the stairs.

"I guess, it was a bit too much. I'm sorry," he said apologetically.

"Yeah, Sherlock. It definitely was too much. For you as well as for me. I'm sorry, too."

The Consulting Detective bent his head between his knees, inhaling and exhaling deeply, the dark curls no longer covering the bright line where the scalp was shining through. The memory of the operation and the permanent EEG made Molly's hair stand on end and she felt sorry for what Sherlock had been through lately. He was apparently nauseous and dizzy and Molly waited until his breath evened out a bit.

"We need to get you upstairs. Can you walk?"

Sherlock looked up to her, smiling weakly.

"To be honest, Molly, no."

"'kay," she replied, unsure what to do. Sherlock had resumed his position, head bowed, but he seemed to be better, going by his breath pattern. He moved closer to the wall on his left, patting on the empty space of the stair he was sitting on.

"Sit down. I'll need a moment."

"'kay," Molly agreed in the high delicate voice she tended to slip into when she was insecure. She gingerly sat down next to the Consulting Detective, carefully avoiding touching him. Nevertheless, she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What was all this about?"

The dark, unruly curls lifted and the pale man threw a quick glance at the pathologist. He sighed briefly.

"Short version?" he wanted to know.

"Any version that's true," Molly answered, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"You... are right. I remember – but not for long. More than I even wished to remember..."

"What do you mean?"

"I remember everything that I had deleted from my memories, everything that I thought I had forgotten about, just everything..." His voice sounded somewhat despairingly.

"Your abduction...," Molly stated.

Sherlock turned his face towards her, raising his eyebrows inquiringly. Molly got in ahead of him. "Mycroft told me about it when you were in the coma. No details, just the fact that you had been kidnapped and that apparently you were struggling with the fact. Your slashed wrist, I mean."

"He told you about it?" Sherlock asked, unable to hide his irritation.

"I asked him about it. Sherlock... I... um... took care of you in the hospital, I just happened to notice the cut. I was just... worried about you."

Again the exhausted man threw a glance at Molly, which contained some kind of disbelief.

"That... was nice of you. Thank you."

This time the young woman had the feeling that her opposite actually meant what he said and a warm feeling of contentment settled in her heart.

"It _was_ my pleasure. – But back to today's show..."

"Hm. As I said, I remember everything – apart from some moments around the shot and the time in hospital. I remembered that when you visited us after we first left the hospital – at Mycroft's home - he was abnormally courteous and friendly and when you arrived here today – by a taxi that you didn't have to pay for – telling us lies about your stroll through the city, I knew instantly that Mycroft had set you on my or our trail. Of course, he would have threatened you with something – most likely with the loss of your job, so it was clear that you wouldn't tell me anything voluntarily. I needed to know, though, what he had told you."

"Nothing. Honestly. He had just told me to spy on you if I wanted to keep my job. I have no idea what he wants, Sherlock. Really. He just mentioned that he wanted to prevent you from doing anything... stupid."

Sherlock gave a short humourless laugh. "He's not too concerned about my well-being; he only wants to know if I'm a step ahead of him with going after the sniper's brains."

Molly shot him a surprised glance. "To be honest, Sherlock, I don't agree. After all, he's not a block of ice! I... don't appreciate his methods, he could just ask for my help – just as you could, but ... - You said, you remember everything. Was it always like that, you and Mycroft?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before uttering a quiet "No, not always," and Molly was convinced she could hear a note of wistfulness in his voice.

"What happened?"

"Maybe...it slipped from my mind that he ... cared, and I got used to it, we got used to it." Sherlock said after some silence.

"But now you remember." Molly probed.

The Consulting Detective shifted a bit, sighing. "It's not as easy, Molly. We have spent a good deal of our lives in constant banter. That's how we get on with each other best. The hostility is just on the surface. That's how we protect ourselves and each other and that's how we _are_. It's easier to protect someone when you don't care about them too much, isn't it?"

"Hmmm, I guess, that's your special logic. I don't know – is it?"

"We both deal with pretty dangerous criminals, terrorists and scum like that. If you care for someone too much, and they find out, you have a weak spot…that's dangerous. "

"Ha, Sherlock, if only it was always as easy as that..." Molly murmured. "... controlling your emotions in order to prevent anyone from hurting you and others. Anyway, what are you up to then?" she said, changing the subject

"Before I can be up to anything, I will have to sort my memories out. Can you imagine what it feels like to have a brain that hasn't forgotten anything? If I wanted, I could tell you what I had for dinner every day during the last five years!"

"That's not too difficult, Sherlock. Let me guess... for fifty per cent of the dinners you had nothing," the pathologist joked, easing the tension a bit.

Sherlock smiled. "Will you help me, Molly?"

"Um, ... with ... what exactly?" she wanted to know, slightly surprised.

"Finding the person behind the shooter before Mycroft finds her," Sherlock replied frankly, piercing Molly with his look.

"Her? And why before Mycroft?"

"He'll kill her, but I want her alive! Her, Molly, because that's obvious! Revenge for someone who has long been dead is a woman's thing. Using poison, too. The errand boy was just a family member, but he wasn't the one pulling the strings. That's someone else."

"Erm, Sherlock, what errand boy?"

"Hmm?" For a moment, the self-claimed smartest man in the world was apparently at a loss, before his mouth suddenly formed a long "Ooh! - "You know about the poisoning, don't you? It seems, though, that Mycroft hasn't told you the full story."

Molly shook her head. The night at the hospital, Mycroft had told her that someone who had an old score to settle with the Holmes family had tried to poison Sherlock and that during the time of his recovery he had had a little mental breakdown in which he had tried to kill himself. To her question what had caused it, he had only given her some enigmatic explanations as to Sherlock having been abducted as a child, which was troubling him now. She had been given neither details nor the overall context, but had been quite shocked anyway by the mere facts back then. It seemed, however, as if there was much more behind it than she would ever have been able to imagine. Contemplating her favourite sleuth's background story, she started to feel bad about having been rather selfish recently. And still, ...

"Okay, Molly, I guess, there's quite a long story to tell, but I don't want to do it here. Let's go upstairs. I think I can manage now." Sherlock interrupted her thoughts, pushing himself up from the stairs and giving her an inviting glance.


	35. Opening up

John and Mrs Hudson listened to the sounds from downstairs. She had come upstairs when John had been sitting in the living-room, glaring daggers at Sherlock's armchair opposite him, grumbling as if it all had been the chair's fault. The old lady had yoo-hooed her greeting, but had instantly positioned herself in front of John, looking at him accusingly.

"What have you done to Molly, John?"

He had blinked a couple of times, pursing his lips and inhaling deeply to calm down from the newly fanned anger. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Sherlock had, according to his current standards, stormed past them and down the stairs.

"What was that?" a surprised Mrs Hudson asked. John could only guess that it had to do with Molly. Maybe his flatmate had come to his senses and decided to apologize to the pathologist - but he wouldn't want to run through London's streets dressed in just a pair of silken pyjamas, would he?

"Hello, Mrs Hudson. You're back, I see. - I... have no idea," John replied, frowning. "And to your question from before: _I_ have done nothing to her myself. The only thing I have to blame myself for is letting him do his weird thing!" With his thumb he pointed over his shoulder in the direction in which Sherlock had disappeared.

"I thought the worst when I came home and bumped into a crying Molly. The last message I got was that Sherlock was okay but had lost his memories, that's why I came back as soon as I could arrange. I thought I could be of some help, but it seems he was playing one of his cruel games, or wasn't he?"

"No, Mrs Hudson, he had indeed lost his memories, but they have resurfaced quite recently. And don't ask me why he insisted on pretending to Molly! I have no idea. He's Sherlock, maybe that's the only explanation for his reasons that we'll get." John pressed his lips together, giving an apologetic smile.

Their talk was interrupted by some obviously very angry shouting from downstairs.

John raised his eyebrows. "That... sounds pretty much like Molly – is she still here?"

"We had a cuppa downstairs. – She was so upset, John!"

"I see. But how did he know then that she was still here?" Most likely, Sherlock hadn't had any intention of running through London in his pyjamas – he had known that she was still in the house.

"He's Sherlock, John!"

"Yeah, that explains it," the doctor mumbled to himself, watching Mrs Hudson walking to their kitchen.

"I'll make you a cuppa – well, we'll all need one. A good tea is better than any medicine can be, John. Maybe sometimes it needs a drop of rum in it..."

Mrs Hudson's cheerful chatter was so refreshing that John couldn't avoid a laugh despite his gloomy mood.

"I might need a drop of tea with my rum, though...," he added quietly.

"Shush, John. It's become quiet downstairs. Should we go and..." the old lady said, when the door to the flat opened and an extremely pale and worn-looking Sherlock entered, supporting himself with his one hand on the wall, and followed by Molly.

John and Mrs Hudson just stared at the two expectantly, which earned them a dark look from Sherlock and an insecure smile from Molly before the latter furrowed her brow and the smile faded. She pierced Sherlock and John's landlady with a look.

"You... said you were, um, unpacking. Are you involved, too?" she asked between gritted teeth.

Mrs Hudson raised her arms in defence. "Of course not, love! I just wanted to check on the boys and, well – probably read the riot act. Someone has to do it!"

Before Molly could say anything, Sherlock pushed her through the living-room towards his room.

John threw a quizzical look at Mrs Hudson, who merely shrugged in return, when the door to Sherlock's bedroom shut behind the Consulting Detective and the pathologist.

"It seems he was successful," John stated drily.

Mrs Hudson hesitantly pointed in the direction of the bedroom door. "Do you think we should..."

"No, I don't think so, Mrs Hudson. Let them sort it out themselves."

"Hmm, yes. But, John- you need to tell me now what's going on here. The atmosphere is quite... chilly here."

The doctor sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "Hm, yeah, I guess I should," he mumbled, "Sit down."

After his landlady had fetched two cups of tea, passing one to John, she made herself comfortable in Sherlock's armchair, scrutinizing John expectantly. The doctor took a deep breath and filled their landlady in with everything that had happened and everything that he knew.

* * *

Molly had taken a seat in the chair in the corner of Sherlock's room. She hadn't dared to interrupt the Consulting Detective once, but the longer she had listened to his gruesome report, the faster her heart had beaten and her breath had gone from the dismay that was laying its icy hand around her heart. When Sherlock had finished, sitting on his bed and resting his head on his raised knees - the casualness of the pose giving Molly an unfamiliar feeling of intimacy- , he stared at the pathologist, who couldn't prevent herself from merely staring back. There was something, however, in Sherlock's gaze that didn't resemble his usual irritated expression when people who were looking at him intently without saying anything. For the first time since she had met Sherlock in St. Barts' lab, the silence between them was neither a busy one nor awkward, it was just right. Molly felt a lump in her throat that she wasn't able to get rid of, so she decided to simply wait. Much to her surprise, Sherlock slowly dropped on his side, rolling up into a foetal position. When the pathologist dared to take a closer look at him a couple of minutes later, he was sound asleep, looking utterly exhausted and peaceful at the same time.

"Poor you," Molly whispered huskily, covering him tenderly with a blanket before tip-toeing out of the room. After she had closed the door very carefully, she slowly turned around to face the living-room, from which Mrs Hudson and John were staring at her expectantly. She moved into their direction clumsily, as if a weight was resting on her shoulders, still feeling the lump in her throat that she realized she wouldn't be able to ignore anymore, the tears already welling from her eyes. Within seconds she was a sobbing mess, dropping onto the sofa and burying her head in her hands. She was embarrassed to lose herself totally, but soon she felt a consoling hand rubbing her back. Molly realised that it was a strong hand and a firm touch, so it wasn't Mrs Hudson's. Without looking up, she let the tears come and the pain she was feeling about Sherlock's fate go.

"What did he do this time?" Mrs Hudson asked without hiding the reproach in her voice, and Molly looked up, her vision still blurred from the tears. After snorting through her snotty nose in a very unlady-like manner, she said quietly, "Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. He, um..., he just talked." Molly felt John patting her back.

"Just for the record, Molly: he talked? Talked in the sense of 'he opened up'?"

The pathologist nodded. "Yes, John. I think I even understand now why he acted the way he did."

"Good. That's good. I think, though, you have the advantage over us now. As hard as I try to understand him, I fail quite often, I'm afraid."

"How can one understand what's going on in that brain?" Mrs Hudson remarked. "But you're right, Molly. John has just told me a good deal of what had happened, so at least some things make sense, although I wouldn't go that far that I understand Sherlock."

"What's he doing now?" the doctor wanted to know, tilting his head into the direction of his flatmate's room.

"Sleeping," the still snivelling woman replied, searching her trouser pockets for a tissue. "John?"

"Hm?" The ex-army man had got up from the sofa, retrieving his crutch.

Molly sighed. "Will he recover?"

John raised an eyebrow in contemplation. "I honestly don't know. You know, Molly, we can't help him – he wouldn't let us anyway, I guess – so, it really depends if he's able to forget about what had happened to him or to cope with it. As much as I sometimes hate his ruthlessness and manipulation, I'm really sorry for him at the same time. He just drives me up the wall with it sometimes."

Mrs Hudson chuckled. "Indeed."

"He asked me to go on the hunt for the woman behind the attacks."

"Woman?" John and Mrs Hudson yelled in surprised unison.

"Er, yes. He explained it to me and it sounds sensible." Molly briefly reported what Sherlock had said about the real culprit. John rolled his eyes.

"What?" Molly probed. "Doesn't make sense?"

"'Course it does! It's just – this bloody leg! Molly... when you go on a hunt with Sherlock, it can be very dangerous - as we've proven quite frequently lately, I reckon. I have a feeling that we underestimated the woman, as you say – Sherlock says - who has this old score to settle with him. I mean, they nearly managed to kill us twice! We're not cats with nine lives, so I don't think that it's a good idea. We should leave it to Mycroft and Lestrade."

Molly threw John a long glance, her eyes speaking volumes of strength, willpower, stubbornness and a familiar glowing around the widened dark pupils.

"Ah, for God's sake! You've already fallen for the promise of danger, haven't you? Talking to you sensibly is in vain, I conclude."

Molly's tear- streaked face took on a determined expression and the corners of her mouth moved up ever so slightly, not quite a smile, yet, but well on the way.

John shook his head, making a little huffing sound. He looked up to the pathologist, his face all of a sudden becoming very serious. He furrowed his brow.

"Be careful, Molly. A dead friend is not what we want. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir!" she saluted, raising her hand to her forehead and imitating the military greeting.

A silent, sorrow-stricken "Oh, dear!" could be heard from Sherlock and John's landlady.


	36. Paperwork

Molly was absorbed in the paperwork. In fact, she had had a hard time concentrating on anything during the past couple of days, mulling over Sherlock's revelation about his fate. Only the fate of the body she was working on managed to distract her from unwillingly picturing a young Sherlock being tortured. It was a fourteen-year-old girl who had died of an overdose in a nightclub toilet. She had apparently fiddled admittance with a forged ID card, which made it difficult for the police to identify her. Molly had been on duty when a couple entered the morgue to verify the death of their daughter. Wealth was radiating from the two, dressed in expensive and elegant clothes, the mother decorated with too much jewellery. Molly's first thought at the sight of them had been bitter. Those were the type of parents who spent more time on accumulating money than on taking care of their children. However, when Molly pulled back the sheet to expose the face of the pale girl, who looked so young with the exaggerated make-up removed, the mother had made a sound that had torn apart her heart - and that's what it had been: the cry of a mother whose heart had been broken.

Molly could usually cope with the reactions of the people coming to the morgue to identify someone. Many of them were in shock and their breakdowns came later when their minds processed the fact that a relative or friend would never come back. What she would never be able to cope with was when she had to deal with children who were supposed to have their lives ahead of them, and their parents. Their reactions were different: volcanic eruptions of distress, grief and often also of the many feelings that had been hidden for who knew how long. Apparently the death of a child lay your heart bare.

The psychologists had taken care of the couple, but the echo of their agony was still reverberating in the morgue and in Molly's mind and heart. She had to get rid of the paperwork of the case for her own peace. That was why she had temporarily expelled the thought of Sherlock from her mind.

She jumped and nearly fell off her swivel chair, giving it a push to turn round when all of a sudden a dark baritone filled the room.

"Have you thought about it?"

Sherlock was standing in front of her - heaven knew how long he had been standing behind her before she had turned, watching her typing on the computer. He was pale and weary-looking, the dark shadows under his eyes telling of sleepless nights. She looked him straight in the eyes that were lacking their lively sparkle, which gave Molly a pang of sympathy.

"I didn't have to," she replied quietly and got a simple nod as a response.

"You look terrible, Sherlock," Molly burst out and instantly condemned herself for being so blunt, biting her lower lip nervously. She knew that the Consulting Detective hated such comments. "Sorry," she murmured.

"I needed to escape. 221B occasionally tends to become too small for John and Mrs Hudson drowning themselves in the dullness of crap-telly, and me," the tall man spat contemptuously and Molly sensed that apparently he had been annoyed and maybe they had been fighting.

As far as she could judge, Sherlock wasn't at all in a condition to run around London or even to stand there in the morgue, so she offered him her chair, afraid of having to lift him from the floor in the next couple of minutes because he had dropped unconscious from the exertion. Of course he refused to sit down, but the pathologist literally pushed him down, meeting little resistance. She felt a little uncomfortable laying her hands on his shoulders, but she preferred this brief intimacy to having him down on the floor. She scolded herself for being so ridiculous as she had taken care of him when he had been in the coma, which had included a much greater deal of intimacy than making him sit down. And still, she felt insecure, her heart beating in her throat. Whether it was from the shock of his sudden appearance in the morgue or simply from his appearance, she couldn't tell.

"Coffee?" Molly asked, trying to bide some time to regain her equilibrium. Plus, having a mug to cling to would prevent her from wringing her fingers nervously as was a bad habit of hers that made it too easy for people to guess her inner state.

Sherlock, however, ignored her offer, scrutinizing the laptop that was sitting on the table, the open documents telling of the cruel stroke of fate, which wouldn't touch Sherlock at all if he knew about it. Death was just the end of life to him, no reason to grieve - although she had seen traces of it when he had identified this particular woman that she still felt envious about.

"I need to get the information Mycroft has about the woman," he uttered almost to himself, and Molly wasn't sure if he was still aware of her presence. She herself had to recollect which woman he was talking about since she had just thought about someone Sherlock most likely had already banned from his mind - or had he?

"What's your scheme? Do you want to break into his office?" the pathologist wanted to know. She was convinced that he had already worked out a plan.

Sherlock turned the chair around, looking up to her with a frown that transformed into a superficial smile that promised nothing good. "No, Molly, my brother's office is like a vault. Any attempt to trespass would leave you with a treason sentence - even me. No," he repeated, and Molly's hair in the small of her neck stood on end. "I'm going to break into his mind - and you will unlock the doors."


	37. Molly's task

Molly was nervous, trying to wipe her damp hands surreptitiously on the plain but quite elegant dress. She needed to get her anxiety under control; otherwise Mycroft wouldn't need more than a minute to figure out that the real purpose of their meeting wasn't that she wanted to report on Sherlock's plans about finding the culprit for the attacks on the Consulting Detective and his flatmate's lives - not the truth at least.

She waited outside for the limousine to pick her up and drive her to the Holmes mansion. It was a business meeting, but Molly had thought that it couldn't be too bad an idea to look good - appropriate - when dining at the noble home of Mycroft Holmes. The latter had been very polite on the phone, inviting her instantly - a fact that Sherlock had predicted and expected.

When the shiny black car glided to the kerb almost noiselessly and she waited for the driver to open the back door, Molly sensed that this would be one of the toughest tasks she had ever dealt with, being one of the worst liars in the world, telling one of the cleverest men in the world a story that wasn't even built on her own ideas. She was afraid of being unmasked and thus spoiling Sherlock's scheme and losing Mycroft Holmes's trust.

The other incredible difficulty was to make Mycroft eat one of the truffles Sherlock had given her and told her NOT to try one herself. Upon asking what they contained, Sherlock hadn't replied; he had just repeated his warning.

He had explained to her that his brother loved chocolate, and truffles in particular, and that he could hardly resist them. Since Mycroft was on a diet and, therefore, didn't have any of them available, he would behave like an animal that had been fed with salt and kept away from water for a while - he would fall on them. Molly could only hope that Sherlock knew his brother well enough. It was her task then to ring the Consulting Detective afterwards to signal him that their plan had worked. If only she survived the evening! At the moment, Molly regretted a bit that she had promised to help Sherlock as she hadn't thought that it meant that she would work _for_ him rather than working _alongside_ him.

She gracelessly climbed into the backseat of the car, wondering how women in dresses could get into cars without looking ridiculous. Sunk in the cosy depth of the soft leather seats, she enjoyed the ride, feeling even a bit like a real lady and forgetting for a couple of minutes about her task. She was disrupted in her daydreams when the door opened again and the chauffeur offered her a hand. All of a sudden, she was afraid, her heart beating wildly in her chest, and she briefly contemplated refusing the hand and asking the driver to take her back home. However, on the other hand, she wanted to be brave, to prove to Sherlock that she was really much more than the lab mouse, so she collected herself and prepared for entering the lion cage - or hopefully, if Sherlock was right, the monkey enclosure.

The dinner went by uneventfully and Molly reported to Mycroft the fake story of Sherlock's scheme, which was only commented with occasional frowns and dismissive shakes of his head. As peculiar as the formal distance of their seats at the rather long dinner table was, Molly appreciated it this time since it brought a safe space between her and Mycroft, which made it more difficult for him to read her nervousness from her posture and eyes.

Much to her surprise, Mycroft seemed to be quite contented with what Molly told him, so apparently, Sherlock had known very well what would sound believable to him. After the dinner they sat down in the luxurious living room for some cognac and coffee and Molly saw the older Holmes's eyes darting in the direction of where her little gift was sitting on a side table. She had given it to him when she had met him at the entrance, telling him that it was just a little selection of the chocolate truffles she loved so much herself- well, when she could afford them, every now and then as a special treat, and she had seen the tiniest hint of a sparklein his eyes. Anticipation?

Molly wondered briefly at the fact that, despite their display of mutual disdain, the brothers seemed to know each other really very well.

A few sips of coffee and cognac later, the pathologist witnessed Mycroft's resistance breaking down, and he went to the little elegant side-table, taking the box of chocolates into his hand, contemplating for a second before opening the ribbon, subconsciously inhaling the sweet scent upon opening the lid and offering her a truffle.

A little shock went through Molly before she plainly answered, that she couldn't eat anything anymore, otherwise her dress would burst. Condemning herself for her stupidity, as the dress wasn't really tight but rather comfortable, she hoped that Mycroft would interpret it as a lady-like refusal to indulge shape-ruining substances. She was wrong. If only she hadn't told the older Holmes of her liking of truffles! He insisted she took one first. Being in a real dilemma between risking him not eating the chocolate and sticking to Sherlock's warning, she decided that the Consulting Detective wouldn't want to kill his brother, so she wouldn't be risking any harm when she ate one of the lovely sweet balls. In fact, the expensive chocolate with a core of buttery, sweet whiskey cream inside melted on her tongue and a pleasant feeling spread in her mouth. She closed her eyes for a second and uttered a long, delighted "Mmmmmm."

Feeling guilty of having eaten of the forbidden chocolate, she opened her eyes widely, almost staring at Mycroft, who was already chewing on the second bit, admitting to her that there was hardly anything in the world he couldn't resist - apart from chocolate truffles.

Molly tried to assess herself in order to find out if the substance that Sherlock had injected into the truffles, showed any effect. Since she couldn't feel anything unusual, she excused herself, pretending to be in dire need of using the bathroom. From her last visit at the Holmes mansion, she remembered where the toilet was, so she just got up and escaped from the living-room. On her way to her destination, she sighed with relief - it was done, perfectly. Well, almost perfectly. Having locked the door to the richly decorated guest-bathroom, she took out her mobile from her unusually small handbag and pushed the one-touch-dialling button for Sherlock, when all of a sudden, a slight dizziness befell her. She only managed to unlock the door and stagger into the entrance hall before plumping into the next available chair, unable to move anymore. Before she entirely slumped in the rather uncomfortable seating furniture, she briefly wondered how Mycroft was feeling now and if she had been right to assume that the substance wouldn't do any serious harm. Then it went dark around her.


	38. Drugged Molly

A familiar sonorous voice reached her inner ear and it took a while for her brain to process that it had a slightly annoyed undertone.

"You really couldn't resist, could you?"

Molly wondered who was replying. It was someone with a voice just like hers. No, not like hers, it was her! When she mustered all her attention and focused it on her mouth, she felt it move and form words. It was as if her vocal apparatus was dissolved from her control.

"Mmm, had to eat one to make him eat one too," her mouth murmured and the familiar voice made a grunting sound.

"Can you walk?" the voice wanted to know and Molly was surprised about the saucy answer her own mouth produced.

"Do I look like I can walk? So help me get up."

"You stay here until I'm back. Don't move, don't talk, just stay put."

Her lips opened again to remark something, but her brain couldn't quite process what it was, so she just pouted and her head dropped back to her right shoulder. She was a little afraid that it would fall on the floor and roll away, but much to her relief it simply stayed where it was, in an uncomfortable position that would definitely cause her neck pain.

She had no idea as to how long she had been sitting in that position, but the next thing she perceived was that baritone voice again, telling her to keep quiet. All of a sudden, she felt a tight grip around her waist and she was sure that she had spread her wings - since when did she have wings? - and flown through the hall, out into the fresh air. She was a butterfly, albeit a butterfly with some pain in the stomach. Something was pressing against it and it wasn't really comfortable. Two dark wings were fluttering before her eyes and they reminded her strangely of a bat. Bats and butterflies - there was something... Oh, she would be eaten by it! Molly felt the urge to squirm, but the next moment, the pressure in her stomach was gone and she was sitting somewhere. A plane? Butterflies on planes? How stupid! No, not quite. Taxi it was. Although she didn't know where the thought came from, her brain told her that that was pretty likely and that it was also pretty likely that she wasn't a butterfly.

Her head felt heavy and light at the same time and she couldn't help but let it roll to the side again. This time, however, it came to rest somewhere else, somewhere slightly rough but also cosy.

There was the voice again, along with a humming sound. Bees. Was she inside a beehive? The noise was varying from very quiet to rather loud and with it came a feeling of movement.

"Molly. Are you ok? Do you have any difficulty breathing?"

Molly, that was her, of that she was rather sure. Not all sure, but quite.

"Yes, I'm ok. Jusss... a little... dunno," her mouth produced.

"You'll be fine again soon, don't worry. Your response to the drug is unusually strong. Sure you had only one chocolate?"

"Yesss."

She had closed her eyes and for a while she simply enjoyed the boat trip and the gentle rocking of the waves. No, taxi, not boat! Why was she confusing everything?!

She tried to lift her eyelids to get an idea where exactly she was, on a boat or in a taxi, and after some endless time she managed to focus on something. It was oddly familiar and made her heart beat a little faster. A shirt - a purple shirt. She knew the shirt, and it suddenly flashed through her mind that she was leaning against the man of her dreams - Sherlock. It was a bit of a shock, but at the same time she told herself that she was surely sleeping anyway and it didn't matter. Why shouldn't she enjoy her dream?

"Are you ok?"

Sherlock. It was his voice. And he wanted to know if she was alright.

"I'm fine, darling, better than I've ever been."

Only slowly did her mind realise what had just slipped from her mouth and for a split-second she felt the body she was leaning to stiffen a bit, before a quiet snort told her that Sherlock had briefly laughed. Why the hell had she said it?

Before she could contemplate it any further, she was lifted again, felt the same pressure in her stomach as some time ago. She closed her eyes because she was a tad nauseous and tried to focus on something else rather than the bat wings that had come into her vision once more.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What's that? What have you done with her?"

Another familiar voice, but Molly was unable to remember who it belonged to. The voice didn't sound very pleased, though.

Her legs and a second later also her face hit something cool and soft and a bewitching scent filled her nose. A realisation crept into her mind: she was lying in Sherlock's bed.

Don't think, just enjoy, she told herself and kept her eyes closed.

"She ate one of the truffles that were meant for Mycroft and she responded a little too much to the Scopolamine. We need to watch her breathing. I don't think, however, that she'll need the antidote. She's just hallucinating a bit. John - erm, don't ask her anything, ok? I'm not sure if we want to hear her hidden secrets."

Molly heard the words, but they didn't make any sense to her and she slowly felt her surroundings dissolve before she distantly heard a chuckle accompanying her into her sleep.


	39. Drugged Molly II

The grin on John's face disappeared the moment he limped into the living-room.

"Have you gone mad, Sherlock?" he scolded. "Giving them Scopolamine! They could die!" The doctor hectically dug his mobile from his pocket, drumming 999 on the screen of his smartphone.

Throwing himself onto the sofa, Sherlock dismissed John's objection with a wave of his hand.

"No. Of course not. The dosage is far too low. Put away your phone!"

"But you said we should monitor Molly's breathing, so you know about the risks! It's..."

"John. Calm down. I know how much my brother needs and is fine with. It's not the first time. As for Molly - well, she wasn't supposed to eat any of the chocolates. She had strict orders. She seems to be slightly over-sensitive to Scopolamine, that's why I think it's better to keep an eye on her."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was so typical of Sherlock.

"You made your brother give you the information you wanted by drugging him with Scopolamine?! You little..." He shook his head, amused, but also slightly aghast.

Sherlock faked a smile in response. "He wouldn't talk out of free will, would he?"

"Secret service methods seem to rub off a little, huh? But you are aware, Sherlock, that the substance only makes people more talkative. They don't necessarily have to tell you the truth."

"Of course I know. The art is to extract the hallucinations from the truth. You'd be surprised how much of what everyone else would consider hallucinations is in fact truth when interrogating my brother."

"He'll have a hell of a headache. Don't you think Mycroft will guess what you did to him?"

"He most probably will and will be furious about it."

"Oh, okay... So, ... you've done that before, you say? How many times? Have you done it to other people - me, for example - too?"

Sherlock was lying on his back, head resting on his arms, eyes closed. He briefly smirked mischievously.

"Not to you. So far. To Mycroft? Hmm, ... a couple of times, I don't know exactly."

"You do know! Of course, you do! You said you remember everything, so you know! Okay, numerous times then. Not sure if that should bother me or reassure me that you haven't miscalculated the dosage."

"Think the latter if that soothes you - and now let me think!" With that he rolled on his side, facing away from his flatmate.

John huffed, angry about Sherlock's ruthless methods. However, at the same time he was amused. How could he have expected the two brothers to work together, or even share information like normal people did? The doctor gained a vague idea of what it must have been like to supervise the boys in their youth. The nannies must never have been sure if they hadn't been simply drugged whenever they refused to play along with the two Holmes brothers.

Back in Sherlock's room, John watched the young pathologist murmuring in her restless sleep. Scopolamine was a substance that was rather easily available, used as medication against motion sickness or as a sedative if admitted in higher doses. Since people could still be responsive and, in fact, quite talkative under the influence of a certain dosage of Scopolamine, secret services had used it as a truth serum. However, its admittance could easily turn into a tightrope walk of either making people talk or killing them by respiratory paralysis.

Sherlock seemed to be right, though, that Molly wasn't in danger of the latter. Her reaction to the substance was still a bit odd. If his flatmate hadn't miscalculated the amount of the drug in each truffle, they should definitely tell Molly to never take any chewing gum against motion sickness.

The pathologist became quite restless, throwing herself from one side to the other and gesticulating wildly in her hallucinatory sleep.

"Molly. Molly! Calm down, it's just hallucinations," John tried to get through to her.

He didn't dare touch her as he knew that he could frighten her with it. She suddenly sat up in the bed, eyes opened to slits and staring at John suspiciously. The doctor felt slightly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Her look changed slowly from confused to evil and before John could react, she jumped from the bed and at the man leaning on his crutch. The impact of the woman, who was now clinging to him, made him lose his walking aid and stumble backwards painfully, before losing his balance and landing on his back, Molly sitting on top of him. She was drumming her fists against his chest and face.

"You killed him! You killed Poppy! You severed his ears! That was you!"

John had closed his eyes and tried to protect his face from the beats, when he felt Molly's weight lifted from him. Sherlock had appeared behind her and he was trying to take her back to bed, holding her arms tightly at her sides and speaking to her calmly, which apparently helped.

"Holy Mary! What was that?" John wanted to know after Sherlock had helped him up and had taken him to the living-room, where, still somewhat stupefied, he flopped into his armchair, resting his leg on the stool that was standing there for the purpose, rubbing his thigh as if it could relieve the pain in his calf.

"Just hallucinations. They should subside in a couple of minutes," Sherlock informed his flatmate, taking a seat on the sofa again. "I told you not to ask her anything!"

"I didn't ask her anything, Sherlock! I just tried to soothe her."

"Don't," was the Consulting Detective's curt reply.

"Yep, I won't again. Sure. - Do you know who Poppy is? Do you think it was her dog? Or even her sister or friend? Does she have a sister? Did anything happen to her?"

"Not important."

"Oh, yeah! That's you again! You drug your friends and then they're not important."

Sherlock threw John an angry glance. "I didn't say she isn't important. That isn't important for now. Even if Poppy _was_ her sister, we couldn't do anything about it now, could we? Therefore, unimportant. I need to think!" The tall man resumed his old position on the sofa, but John was not only concerned about Molly's well-being; Mycroft had got a much higher dose of the drug.

"Aren't you worried about Mycroft? He really must be going through hell right now."

"For God's sake! How am I supposed to think when you're chatting all the time! No, I'm not worried. Yes, he's going through hell now. But it's nothing that couldn't be cured with a day's rest and some aspirin. He got the antidote right after I had questioned him and one of his house staff is looking after him. So, don't worry and shut up!"

John opened his mouth in order to scold Sherlock for his inhumane recklessness, but he closed it again, knowing that it would just bounce off him anyway.

Resigning to the prospect of yet another night of unrestful sleep in his armchair, John lay his head back, clinging to the Union Jack cushion.

Hours had passed by and the shadows of 221b had already started to give way to the first red of rising daylight, when a scream suddenly disrupted the quiet. Sherlock still hadn't managed to fully restore his mind palace, and particularly not to expel the bad memories from his mind. John experienced times when his friend was utterly unresponsive, sorting the data in his brain, and there were moments when his memories resurfaced unwantedly, terrifying the Consulting Detective particularly at night.

Although John had almost got used to the nightly demons that were haunting his flatmate, his eyes shot open and he sighed at the realisation that he wasn't lying in his cosy bed but supposed to keep watch over two people at the moment. Speaking of which... The dim light didn't allow the doctor to get a full glance of his flatmate, but he could see that his hair was plastered to his head, most likely being wet from cold sweat. Just when John prepared to push himself up from the armchair, his muscles and bones protesting furiously, Molly staggered into the living room, keeping her balance by touching the walls with one hand and holding her obviously hurting head with the other one.

"Uuuuh! Could you just not be so noisy!" she whispered insistently. When her eyes darted into the direction of the still whimpering Sherlock, she screwed up her face as if he was something hideous, and John frowned at her reaction. She shook her head very slowly.

"N... no, it's ... just - that sound!" she almost squealed.

"He's having nightmares. If it gets too bad, I'll wake him. Sit down, Molly; I'll get you some painkillers."

Her face still crumpled, Molly shuffled laboriously to the free armchair opposite John. The latter had fought himself up from his seat and limped to the mantelpiece where they were keeping the currently most frequently needed drugs, so that they - or particularly John - didn't have to walk very far to reach the most urgent medications.

He got her what he thought would help her without doing any harm and handed it to her. She shot him a brief but grateful glance and swallowed the two pills, leaning her had back and closing her eyes.

"John, um, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. My head tells me I must have had at least a bottle of cheap vodka, but I'm sure I didn't have any. I had weird dreams. So, why do I wake up in Sherlock's bed and he sleeps on the sofa?"

"Why does it always have to be me picking up the shards of Sherlock's crazy ideas?" the tired doctor muttered, rubbing his face with his hands as if to wipe away the fatigue. "You remember having dinner with Mycroft and giving him the truffles Sherlock had prepared for him?"

"Hm-m," Molly nodded with a frown.

"It was a substance used as truth serum and you seem to react a bit oddly to it."

"Oooh, the chocolate! I couldn't refuse eating one. - But what happened then? What was in it? How did I get here?"

"Well, when I saw you first, you were hanging over Sherlock's shoulder like a limp rag."

"Urgh, how embarrassing!"

"Don't worry. I've seen worse in my life."

Molly shut her eyes, moaning quietly.

"You shouldn't take any motion sickness medication, though. None with Scopolamine, that is, because that's the substance in the truffles and Sherlock assured me you only got a very small dose."

"Oh! He should have told me beforehand! I know that I'm oversensitive to it. Once my parents gave it to me on a boat trip when I was a child - next thing I remember was waking up in hospital. Did I do anything... embarrassing?"

John saw a little red flush on the woman's face.

"Don't worry. Erm, Molly? - You were talking a bit in your sleep and... you, erm, attacked me, mistaking me for someone who killed your Poppy...," John said carefully and the woman's eyes shot open.

An unexpected grimace appeared on her face and the ex-army man eventually identified it as a smile.

"I... attacked you?! Oh, dear! I'm sorry! - Poppy, yeah," Molly repeated, slightly lost in thought. She blinked a couple of times, then smiled broadly at the slightly confused John. "It's my cuddly rabbit - it was, to be precise. Once my primary school friend got angry with me and cut its ears off. I remember I was furious about it, but my mum stitched them back to its head. Strange... I hadn't thought of it in years."

"Well, drugs bring the weirdest things to the surface. I'm glad it was just a cuddly rabbit - I had thought the worst." John sighed with relief.

Molly laughed, but apparently regretted it, her hands shooting to her temples as if she wanted to protect her head from bursting.

"Go back to sleep, Molly. Sherlock is fine - he hasn't woken up, so the nightmare wasn't too bad. I guess, he'll have a plan by now and won't rest much once he has started putting it into practice. If you still want to help him, you'd better get some rest, too."

"I hope his scheme doesn't involve any drugs anymore. Otherwise, I'm out. I need water! My mouth is dry as if had eaten a whole sandpit!" Molly huffed, making her way back to bed, stopping at the bathroom, from where the sound of running water reached John's ears. One of the most common and unpleasant side-effects of Scopolamine was a dry mouth. Mycroft would feel like having wandered through the Sahara without any water supply and John wondered what the elder Holmes would do about Sherlock drugging him. A counterattack of whatever kind was to be expected and for once, the ex-army man was a tad contented that he wasn't involved.

When John woke up in the morning, he was aching from head to toe. Struggling to get out of the armchair, he wondered how long he had actually slept after the nightly interruption since the rays of sunlight falling through the windows of 221b were already lighting the bookshelf, thus it had to be late morning already. His glance fell on the sofa where he had expected Sherlock to be lying, but it the black leather furniture was uninhabited.

John looked around, squinting his eyes due to a throbbing headache caused by the tense muscles in his neck. The bedroom door was open, as was the bathroom door, but there were no sounds. Neither Molly nor Sherlock seemed to be there. The doctor huffed, when his eyes fell on a cup of still steaming coffee and two notes on the side table. The first note was from Molly, thanking him for taking care of her. She hadn't wanted to wake him, but would call him later. The second note was apparently scribbled in a hurry, contrasting Molly's neat and round letters. It was Sherlock's handwriting and simply said: _Off out. Don't call Mycroft. If not back in three days, call Mycroft. SH_

In three days?! Sherlock wasn't at all in a condition that allowed him to go wandering off for three days, most likely without eating anything and treating himself with some sleep. If that woman didn't manage to kill him off, he would certainly master it on his own.

John stretched his limbs and back, trying to relax his muscles, before taking a sip from the sweet coffee. It had been very attentive of Molly to leave him some coffee as it saved him the painful way to the kitchen - and it told him that she had only recently left.

Standing in the empty living-room, a shadow of a gloomy mood darkened the bright morning when the doctor realised that he was confined to 221b and couldn't do anything while the other were, well, having fun! That sucked. He dropped back into his armchair, rubbing the stubble on his chin and finally deciding to turn on the telly. Crap telly in the morning - the day could only get better...


	40. Shopping Spree

"Get your jacket, we're going shopping."

Molly shot around, nearly dropping the metal bowl, the intestine of the murder victim she was just examining dangerously sloshing to the rim of the container. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, looking wearily in her direction. He was as pale as a sheet.

"Sherlock! Where have you been? You look awful! It seems each time you come here you look worse! Er..., sorry, but honestly, Sherlock, you belong in your bed!"

The exhausted-looking man dismissed her objection with an irritated raise of his eyebrow. "I... needed information and organised something. Get changed," he ordered. The pathologist stared questioningly into the bowl with the reddish-blue-ish, slimy mass in it.

"Shopping?"

"I said so, yes. You said you wanted to help me find that woman. So, let's go shopping," Sherlock said, adding a fake yet sweet smile.

"Oh, it's for the case! What do we need?" Molly was still astonished, but thought that shopping in this case would most likely be stuff they needed for solving it, thus no shopping in the literal women's sense. She laughed inwardly; how could she for a second have thought that London's famous sleuth would go shopping with her?

"Yep, for the case. You need two, no three dresses with matching shoes, handbags and hats. You need a real hairstyle and a manicure and, well, the whole cosmetics thing. We don't want to raise suspicions, do we?"

The woman's ears were ringing. Had Sherlock really said something about a shopping and spa spree every woman dreamt of?! However, this particular man mentioning something like that couldn't mean anything good. An uneasy feeling befell her.

"Er... Sherlock? What exactly am I supposed to do? Does it involve any more drugs? If that's the case, I'm out, sorry." She lowered her gaze, feeling a pang of guilt because of letting Sherlock down, but at the same time scolded herself for her cowardice. There was a limit to everything she did and it was nothing she had to be ashamed of. Molly threw Sherlock a glance.

For a split-second his eyes showed a little sparkle and with a little push of his arm, he brought himself to standing firmly on both feet without taking advantage of the doorframe. For a short time he managed to actually stand without swaying, but exhaustion got the better of him.

"You have to act a bit, be a lady and make contact with Mrs Campbell, as she calls herself. Mrs Campbell, as you can guess, is the woman attempting to get rid of me. My scheme doesn't involve any drugs, erm... so far."

Molly felt excitement fluttering in her guts. That really sounded thrilling and she had to admit that the prospect of escaping the smell of the pathology rooms for a couple of days and being a lady - even if just pretend - sounded extremely promising to her.

"Yeah," she replied a little weakly, and then stronger, "yeah, sounds good. Let me just finish Mr Donovan here off and I'll be ready in two hours. 'k?"

"Mr Donovan? There's another Donovan that would make a great impression on your table," Sherlock mumbled and Molly stopped short for a second, frowning. "What?" she probed, unsure if she had got Sherlock right.

"Nothing, just daydreaming." the Consulting Detective answered distractedly, his gaze turned inwardly in concentration.

It had just been one of Sherlock's rare outbursts of strange black humour and Molly was glad that the respective Detective Sergeant Donovan, whom he had obviously been talking about, wasn't present.

Molly worked very fast to get her work done. Sherlock had told her to wait at Barts for him to pick her up and had disappeared without any further goodbye. She hadn't wanted to put him off by telling him that people were actually worried about him, disappearing for nearly three days. She had talked to John who had been quite relaxed on the surface, but she had been able to hear the grumpy undertone in his voice. Plus, as expected, Mycroft had paid him a visit later the same day. According to John's report, he had had a very nasty headache, looking pale and weary, which hadn't really helped conceal his anger that, in the lack of Sherlock's presence, had then been directed at John.

Mycroft had apparently dropped his mask of calm and composition and had behaved like any person worried about his brother: he had made accusations towards John and had tried to literally squeeze the information as regards Sherlock's whereabouts out of the poor doctor, who didn't know anything himself. He had then left 221B muttering to himself. Molly had seen Mycroft being worried before when Sherlock's life had hung on a thin thread, so she assumed that his brother knew exactly that the purpose of the drugging had been to get the necessary information the sleuth needed to find that woman, which meant putting himself into danger yet once more.

The pathologist was a bit torn between calling John or even Mycroft, thus abusing Sherlock's trust but potentially minimizing the risk they were about to take, or being as loyal as he assumed she was and remaining silent. Molly decided on dropping just a tiny little note to let John know Sherlock was alright and quickly sent a text: He's ok. Molly.

Molly was a slightly surprised, however, that the personified British Government hadn't shown up at the morgue to interrogate her. Being relieved about slipping through his net herself, she pushed the thought aside.

Precisely two hours after they had set the appointment, Sherlock showed up at the morgue, looking better yet still pale and exhausted. He scrutinized Molly, looking her up and down and up again, so that the pathologist started squirming under his gaze.

"Leave that ridiculous bag!" he ordered, his eyes becoming slits as if he was estimating something on her.

"It's ... not ridiculous! I need to bring some things here, so I need a bag of that size!" she defended herself, instantly knowing that it was in vain. Men would never understand a woman's handbag - and Sherlock of all men wouldn't be an exception.

"Leave it. You don't need it for the next couple of days. I'll feed the cat."

Molly blinked a couple of times from surprise. He hadn't said anything about not returning home or to work.

Sherlock rolled his eyes about her apparent sluggishness.

"You'll call in sick and you'll get a proper sick note. "

"But,... if anybody sees me...?" she objected, kneading the cloth of her oversize handbag nervously.

The Detective briefly screwed up his face, turning up the corners of his mouth into a smile-like grimace and blinking exaggeratedly.

"They wouldn't recognize you."

"Oh," the pathologist stated slowly, unsure what to think about Sherlock's scheme. It could mean a lot of fun, but acting wasn't her strongest skill. To be fair, she was terrible it, stammering and getting into a muddle from her nervousness each time she had tried to pretend to be someone else. At school it had resulted in her being a tree, animal or any other ridiculous participant of the school plays who didn't have any lines to speak.

As much as the prospect of doing something potentially dangerous thrilled her, she was literally scared that she could fail and thus be discovered.

_Pull yourself together, Molly Hooper! For once in your life, be brave and don't fuck it up!_ she scolded herself.

Going out into the bright afternoon sunshine, Sherlock instantly pushed Molly into a cab that he had hailed. Only rarely did the pathologist's funds allow her to take a cab, and the underground didn't offer many good views, so she enjoyed the beauty of London in sunshine during their journey in the dense capital's traffic. When they passed St. James's Park and Green Park, Molly was completely lost in daydreaming. She already felt like the queen herself and she was tempted to raise her hand for a royal wave. Leaving the main roads and entering narrower streets with rows of Victorian two-storeyed buildings, all flawlessly white with black forged iron fences with little golden spheres on top of each railing. Lush flower baskets were hanging from the street lamps, adding some pleasantly colourful spots to the black and white. The Porsches, Bentleys and Mercedes-Benz parking at the kerbs underlined the luxury of this part of London. This was where the money was - and this was where she didn't belong. The first-floor lattice windows were peering down on her accusingly. Molly suddenly felt out of place and awkward.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" she asked cautiously. The Consulting Detective was looking out of the side window, seemingly lost in thought as well. Obtaining no reaction, she tried again, touching his arm to get his attention. Sherlock jumped, looking at her with some confusion in his eyes for only a second before they were clear and awake again.

"Hm?"

"Where are we going?" she probed.

"As I said: Shopping."

"Yeah, but this is hardly the part of London where I normally go shopping."

"No, no Oxfam or Marks and Spencer around here, I imagine."

Albeit Sherlock didn't say anything but the truth, his words stung because of his contemptuous tone. She was well aware of him wearing only bespoke shirts and suits, but she wasn't wealthy. She tried to save some money each month, and the last time she had spent a large amount of her savings on a dress, had been totally in vain. Only once had she wanted to catch Sherlock's attention; that one Christmas that the sleuth had managed to turn into a horror of a Christmas and the loneliest of her entire life, when he had made fun of her make-up and dress and the presents she had carefully picked - not just his, but everyone's. He had been wrong about everything back then, utterly wrong. Molly tried to focus on something else as she felt tears of scorn and shame in her eyes. Only recently had she realised that the apology following her humiliation had actually been a display of recognition as he simply wouldn't have _cared_ about what most people would have thought of his cruel deductions.

Molly felt his attention on her and, after blinking away the most persistent teardrops, raised her eyes. Sherlock was looking at her with some softness in his gaze.

"Sorry, Molly. I'm grateful you are helping me," he said sincerely, finishing his sentence with a genuine smile.

"Sherlock, I, um... should probably know some of the details of your scheme - at least what my role is in it, so that I know what I am to expect. I will not shy away from helping you - as long as you don't drug me again, that is - but it would really be good for me to have at least the faintest idea of what I'm supposed to do."

The Consulting Detective briefly furrowed his brow before nodding and outlining to her the scheme that he had come up with. While he was explaining it to the pathologist, Sherlock didn't look at her, but delivered it in his usual machine-gun-rattling speaking manner. Molly was slightly surprised by its simplicity, but at the same time scared she could have missed something crucial.

"That's it?" she wanted to know after Sherlock had finished.

"Molly, it sounds easy, but..."

"...don't worry, I won't spoil it," she assured him, but wasn't all too convinced of her words herself.

"I'll tell you the details when you need them - just to make sure you don't confuse anything. "

"Sherlock...," Molly warned him. Although she knew that he often didn't even notice that he was offending people, she didn't want to be treated just as it pleased him. Normally, John was the moral arbiter reminding his flatmate of utterances and actions that were 'a bit not good'.

The taxi stopped in front of one of the noble houses and the pathologist wondered where around here there could be a place that offered clothing. The houses all looked the same and there were no shop windows or signs that could give her a clue. Sherlock paid the taxi, tipping the driver with quite a sum. Molly guessed that he was just a lucky cabby and that it was carelessness rather than appreciation that made the Consulting Detective so generous.

The tall man disembarked the taxi elegantly, the long black coat that seemed a little over-dressed in the quite warm sunshine, falling back obediently into its straight and completely creaseless shape and Molly distantly wondered if ever she would be able to afford a coat of such quality. The only coat she possessed was of a wool-synthetics mix that loved to crumple, even though it hadn't been all that cheap. She had never paid too much attention to her every-day clothing, had never really cared about what others thought of how she was dressed, but in the light of her task, she became quite excited about what her outward appearance would be.

Sherlock held the taxi door open, and, much to her surprise, offered her a helping hand. As soon as she was standing safely on the pavement, the tall man turned around and strode in the direction of the gate of the house they were standing in front of, Molly following him shyly. The gate and the front door opened at the same time and a distinguished elderly man in a perfectly fitting black suit, white shirt and alarmingly lilac bow tie was awaiting them. The young woman noticed the tape measure around his neck, arranged like a scarf with one lose end hanging on the front and the other one on his back. He was bald, the skin shiny on his head, however, Molly could spot a slight shade around his head, which gave away that the hairlessness was at least partially achieved by regular shaving. The man was smiling, throwing his hands up into the air before embracing himself.

"Mr Holmes! What a pleasure it is to welcome you here again!"

Molly briefly stared at the person at the front door and had some difficulty holding back a grin. Going by his nasal manner of speaking and his exaggerated gestures, the man could only be as gay as pink ink, and the imagination of Sherlock dealing with a fussing-around homosexual who might even be attracted to the tall, slim man with his curly black hair and pools of eyes that seemed to ever be changing their colour, nearly made her laugh.

The detective, after greeting the man in a very friendly way, had already entered the house while Molly was still standing indecisively at the bottom of the stairs.

"Come in, love! Uuuh, you look awful! Sorry, dear, no offence, but have you ever taken a look into a mirror?!"

Molly blushed a bit and she was ushered through the small entrance hall into a spacious, sun-lit living room that was an abundant display of furniture, that despite its mixture of styles and colours formed a tastefully composed whole. However, it still didn't show any signs that in this house she would be equipped with elegant clothes.

The next few hours passed by rather quickly. Molly was taken to the first floor where paradise was awaiting her. Mr. Romeo, as the cheerful man was unsurprisingly called, led her into an all-white room. Even the thick carpet was flawlessly white. The sides of the room were covered by large wardrobes and the smaller wall was one huge mirror. The opposite of the mirror wall had a door on the right hand side and next to it were two comfortable-looking white leather armchairs with a glass-and-silver side table between them.

Molly was told to go to the adjoining room, the fitting room, and get undressed. The pathologist was afraid to leave spots on the carpet with her bulky but comfortable black shoes and looked down at them questioningly. However, Mr Romeo shooed her, telling her to eventually get rid of those rags she was wearing.

The fitting room was very different from the other room, much smaller, but still about the size of her own living-room. The abundance of pink and gold in the room was quite a brutal contrast to the blazing white. Never in her life had Molly seen such a fitting room. The wallpaper seemed to be made of pink silk with golden embroidery showing elegant swans and Lotus flowers. There was an Empire-style chaise longue with pink upholstery, the wooden parts plated with gold, two matching chairs and a small round table with a glass of champagne on a golden plate. There were some embellished hooks and hangers on the wall by the door, on which the most luxurious underwear was waiting to be tried on.

Molly eyed the lingerie, then the champagne. Wondering whether she was supposed to try on the underwear as well, she decided that having a drink couldn't do any harm to ease her discomfort a bit. She took the first sip slowly, enjoying the fizzing liquid in her mouth before finishing the rest of the glass in a couple of big gulps. She opened the laces of her shoes and kicked them off her feet. Unsure what to do next, she went to the hangers by the door, touching the incredibly soft lace fabric of the bras and briefs. When she saw that the underwear was actually her size, she couldn't resist the temptation anymore and she changed from her own clothes, which she dropped unceremoniously on the floor, into the luxurious undergarments. Realizing that, strangely enough, there was no mirror in the fitting room, she opened the door, peering into the white room to see if Mr Romeo was there, but she couldn't see him. Somewhat relieved, she fully opened the door to scrutinize herself in the mirror. The very second she had stepped into the room, she stopped short, shocked by the reflection in the mirror. She bit her lip, swallowing a curse and fighting the urge to turn round and slam the door behind her, and with that, making an utter fool of herself.

"Fits," Sherlock stated plainly without taking his eyes off of her. Molly's heart skipped a beat. How could she have missed that he was sitting in one of the armchairs? Blushing crimson and unable to say anything, she just stood there wringing her hands, when all of a sudden the door to the floor flung open and Mr Romeo entered the room.

"Oh, love, that looks great! I knew it was the right size," he tweeted. You definitely shouldn't wear such... rags! You have such a delicate physique! Look, Mr Holmes, isn't she beautiful?"

Focussing his gaze on his mobile phone, Sherlock replied, "Beauty is a subjective perception; a combination of different qualities that please the aesthetic senses, especially the sight, but I'm afraid, I'm not susceptible ..."

Molly felt as if someone was pouring a bucket of cold water over her and apparently her face was an open book as Mr Romeo hurried towards her and Sherlock stopped in the middle of his sentence.

"Hush, Sherlock!" the man exclaimed, embracing the humiliated Molly. "With all due respect, that is a plain lie! Your taste is extremely good and your aesthetical senses way above average! As your wardrobe supervisor and tailor I know what I'm talking about." In a softer tone he added, "You look wonderful and he knows it, but that's him, isn't it? You must know, I have known him for many years now, since he was quite young. I'm always trying to see the adult in him, but sometimes it just feels as if he hasn't grown up at all. Always denying beauty and style."

"Enough now, Ted!" Sherlock terminated the flow of words of the older man. "On with the dresses then."

Under the critical eye of the two men, Molly tried on several elegant dresses with matching shoes that Mr Romeo accurately picked from the wardrobes. Albeit feeling like a mannequin dressed to be displayed in a shop window, she nevertheless enjoyed seeing herself in so many different high-quality garments. In the end, she was equipped with the three dresses with matching high-heels and handbags they had come for, plus three sets of underwear, silk stockings and a cream-coloured coat with a very large cashmere pashmina shawl. Since Molly wasn't all too used to walking on high-heels, her gait was a bit wobbly and she even got a lesson in sashaying.

The tension that had arisen at the beginning was soon forgotten and when, while trying to walk on the four-inch heels, Molly was swaying because of the champagne that was making her dizzy, Sherlock actually came to her help, doing the catwalk himself. She had to sit down on the soft floor because her knees wouldn't carry her anymore from laughing.

After a warm good-bye, and a taxi trunk full of high-grade shopping bags, they drove to the next destination not too far away from where they had been. Just as the other house, this one didn't show any exterior signs of being a beauty salon. This time Molly wasn't as surprised anymore to find such a thing behind a normal front door. She spent she didn't know how much time getting her hands manicured, her hair washed, cut and styled. As much as the extravagant woman muttered about her neglected hands, she was pleased with her hair and even found her ponytail not too bad a hairstyle. She showed her how to pin it up with some rather easy movements so that it looked very elegant. For once, Molly was glad that she took good care of her skin as it was examined very critically now, but considered to be in a good condition; only needing some concealer, make-up, powder, blush etc. Since she would have to do the make-up herself for the next couple of days, she was also instructed on it and given the necessary utensils.

Molly normally loathed excessive shopping and now she remembered the reason: it was bloody exhausting. Tired and hungry, she flopped into the taxi seat, Sherlock joining her.

"Tomorrow will be the first day, Molly. I'm taking you to the hotel now where you can eat and get some rest. We only have one day at the maximum before my brother will have found us and spoilt everything. So, do your very best."

Stifling a yawn, the pathologist nodded. "I will. Don't worry." Sherlock gave her a very long look that spoke volumes of his doubts.

"The Ritz," Sherlock instructed the cabbie and Molly burst out laughing, earning an irritated look from the now very pale sleuth.


	41. Breakfast with Brigitte

Spending the night with Sherlock in a first-class hotel had been very exhausting.

It wasn't that Molly had dreamt of anything romantic - she had been far from doing so for a while, although the crush she had on the detective was quite persistent - but finding the double room decorated for a candle-light dinner had indeed triggered at least some hope. As soon, though, as they had sat down at the table, she had realised that it was just business and Sherlock wouldn't eat much anyway. She even had to force him to have at least a little bit of the very delicious food since he hadn't had anything for at least the entire time they had spent together and Molly could see that the sleuth was on the verge of collapsing, although he would never admit it.

In the privacy of the hotel room, Sherlock had instructed Molly very carefully and with every necessary detail what she was supposed to do. Mrs Campbell was currently staying in this hotel for no obvious reason. Sherlock assumed, no, stated matter-of-factly that she was man-hunting and Molly had briefly wondered how on earth he could know something like that without ever having experienced the feeling of loneliness. Or had he?

Some time in the middle of the night after endless repetitions of what she would be saying, Molly's head had just become too heavy and the last thing she had felt was the mild pain of her stretched back muscles when her chin dropped onto her chest.

When she woke up again, she was lying in the king-sized bed - alone, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. It was bright daylight and the rays of sunshine were caressing her face with their warmth. A pang of excitement ran through her body: Today would be a crucial day for Sherlock, therefore also for her - and particularly for her feet that would be squeezed into the high heels for the rest of the day, pretending they belonged there. Getting out of the bed, Molly noticed that she was wearing a silken night dress that hadn't been on her the evening before. It dawned on her that she hadn't put it on herself when all of a sudden the room door swung open, Sherlock rushed in and quickly shut the door behind him, before turning towards her with a terse "Morning."

"M...morning," the woman replied unsteadily, blushing, because it struck her that yet another time after the unlucky events with the truffles, Sherlock had apparently undressed her without her even noticing anything. There had been far too many unwanted revelations in the form of nakedness lately for her liking.

Apparently sensing that Molly was uncomfortable, the Consulting Detective tried to soothe her. "Relax, Molly, I'm getting used to it."

Blushing even more, she mumbled, "But I'm not," turned around and hurried to the bathroom to escape the awkwardness of the situation. After a long, hot shower and the sobering shock of turning it to ice-cold for the last few seconds, Molly sighed deeply - she had forgotten to take her clothes to the bathroom. Wrapped in the plush towel, she carefully opened the door, only to find a curtain in front of her eyes. Examining the supposed curtain closer, she recognised one of the dresses that were held out to her.

"Thought you might need this and wouldn't want to wander through the room in little more than nothing again," Sherlock remarked without any noticeable undertone in his voice and Molly gratefully took the hanger from him. He had selected the light dress with the swinging skirt the pathologist had instantly fallen in love with at Mr Romeo's, and had hung the underwear and stockings she needed beneath the garment.

Dressed and styled as a lady, her mood having improved a lot, she left the bathroom.

"Ta-dah!" she sang and presented herself to Sherlock, stretching her arms and bending one knee so that her weight was resting on just one foot, accentuating her hip.

"Well done!" he praised her after a careful examination and Molly was happy.

When Molly stepped into the elevator, her heart sank and she was suddenly terrified that she would be unmasked instantly, which could be very dangerous for both her and Sherlock. The latter didn't know how exactly Mrs Campbell was pulling the strings, he only knew that she wasn't as wealthy as she appeared to be, so someone was clearly funding her.

Upon entering the breakfast room, Molly instantly spotted the woman she was looking for. Dressed extravagantly, wearing a fur collar at this time of the year and dripping with jewellery, it was obvious even to the pathologist that this woman wasn't of the same ilk as thosewith noble descent and inherited money. She, however, wanted to let people know she was rich. Molly herself wasn't wearing any jewels, but her dress was fine enough to make any further embellishment redundant. Strangely enough, she felt slightly superior to the woman she was supposed to make contact with, and having gained new confidence, she strutted to the buffet to put Sherlock's plan into action.

"Ooops, I'm so sorry," Molly warbled, raising her hands apologetically after spilling her tea over her table next to Mrs Campbell's. "I'm just so clumsy sometimes. I'm really sorry."

All tables in the room were occupied, some of them by only one person, as Sherlock had predicted, and hers was now soaked with tea. At the instance, a waiter hurried to her, pulling her chair back so that she could stand up, asking her politely if her clothing had suffered damage. No matter what he was really thinking, the waiter didn't show any disapproval or reproach. Instead, he went over to Mrs Campbell's table, asking her, embedded in innumerable apologies, whether she minded sharing her table for a short while until the other one was cleaned and newly laid. Sherlock had instructed her never to show any embarrassment but rather to cover it by holding her nose high. It worked quite well as she was offered to take a seat at the neighbouring table, opposite the target person. This had gone well indeed.

"Good morning. My apologies for the inconvenience. I'm Molly Hooper," she introduced herself, offering her well-manicured hand to Mrs Campbell, who took it, eyeing her like an eagle on the hunt.

"Hello, I'm Brigitte Campbell," she replied rather coldly.

Molly tried not to be intimidated, which she normally would be. However, in view of what depended on her acting, she forced herself to converse with the woman opposite her.

"Oh, what a lovely name. Is it German? Your first name, I mean."

"Yes, German. Where's your name from? Sounds rather... plain."

Molly, ignoring Mrs Campbell's attempt to insult her as Sherlock had drummed into her head, told her a story of her northern English aristocratic family, who had sent her to London boarding schools from the age of five on, presumably to get rid of her. That was why she didn't have any northern accent anymore. Since she had been sick of her family, who had left her like an orphan, she had decided one day that taking on a plain name was much more convenient. People didn't ask that much and didn't expect much from her. Since she had been the only daughter, however, and apparently her parents had regretted having more or less lost their child, she had inherited everything from them despite the estrangement. Most of the time she had lived in her family home since her parents' death, but she had just recently sold everything in order to move to London and find a nice spot somewhere at the River Thames.

Molly felt as if the woman was drinking the words from her lips, apparently sensing money that she could profit from.

"I'm so sorry. First, I force my presence onto you and then I bother you with my whole life story. Oh my goodness!" the pathologist tweeted in an exaggerated way. She had to admit to herself that she was currently enjoying her role.

"Oh, it's absolutely fine. Sometimes one needs someone to open their heart to, don't they? Call me Brigitte, please," the woman offered, in a much friendlier tone than before.

"Brigitte, thank you. You know, erm,... there's just one tiny problem left."

"Which is?" she asked, intrigued.

Molly's heart beat wildly. This was the hook that the fish had to swallow.

"Erm, I..." _Focus, Molly!_ "There's a cousin who has set his eye on the money and who tries to blackmail me. You know, I haven't always, let's say, behaved and apparently he knows about it. That's troubling me a lot, as you can imagine."

"Why don't you go to the police?" Brigitte asked with a curious but also slightly suspicious undertone.

Molly's hands were wet and she felt a tad nauseous.

"It's... delicate."

The woman smirked and Molly felt displeasure arouse in her. Stretching out her arm, the woman placed a warm hand over her own ice-cold but sweaty hand.

"Don't worry, dear. I could help you with that. I know someone who can easily put your cousin in his place."

Trapped.

"Oh, ok...," Molly replied cautiously.

"I take it, there is no, hmm, official way to stop your cousin, so you might find my way appropriate. Let's meet later, dear, so we can talk about it and see what I can do for you. Think about it."

"Th...thank you. Three thirty afternoon tea in the Palm Court then? My pleasure."

A little too hastily, Molly stood up and had to restrain herself not to run out of the breakfast room. All her confidence had left her and the nausea had turned into real sickness. She needed to get to her room as quickly as possible. _Breathe_ , Molly! she repeated in her mind, exhaling and inhaling deeply.

What had seemed so easy at the beginning had overwhelmed her the moment the woman had offered to do something about her cousin. Going by the cruelty and recklessness of taking revenge for a lost family member by murdering - or at least attempting thus - the descendants of the man involved in killing her next of kin, it was very likely that she was offering to also murder Molly's supposed cousin. The pathologist suddenly felt as if someone had dealt her a blow to the abdomen.

Knowing that she still was in sight of some people, staff and guests, she mustered all her remaining composure and waited for the elevator to arrive. When eventually she reached her room, she fidgeted with the key card and was hardly able to open the door. Sherlock wouldn't help her open the door just in case she wasn't alone, that's what they had agreed on, but now Molly wished nothing more than the bloody thing to unlock. When finally, she managed to enter the room, she slammed the door shut and ran to the bathroom, ignoring the surprised look of the Consulting Detective that followed her.

Regardless of the bathroom door still standing ajar, Molly threw up into the toilet.

Still spitting some bile, she heard Sherlock remark amusedly, "I had been reliably informed that the breakfast here isn't all too bad."

The poor woman flinched. She wasn't even embarrassed by vomiting in Sherlock's presence. There was apparently some kind of shock settling in her.

She flushed the toilet and rinsed her mouth out at the sink. Preparing her toothbrush, she scolded, "I didn't even _have_ breakfast! And now let me brush my teeth!"

"Oh," was Sherlock's only reply.

Molly quickly cleaned her teeth and the detective waited patiently by the door. She put the toothbrush away and slowly turned around, tears springing to her eyes.

"Sherlock, I think... I'm about to set a murderer at you."


	42. Matters of the Heart

"Well done, Molly! So, everything went smoothly. You did a good job!" Deaf to the praise, which was rare enough from Sherlock's mouth, the pathologist tried to regain control over her emotions. She was shivering and the tears were streaming from her eyes.

" _Well done?!_ Sherlock! I..."

"Calm down. What's your problem? You are just helping me putting an end to the threat of that woman, plus, you are familiar with murders and used to seeing murder victims, so what's upsetting you?"

"But I'm not used to _hiring_ murderers and I don't want to see _you_ on my slab!" she sobbed with a shrill voice. "Not _your_ murderer..." she added more quietly.

"Look, Molly," Sherlock tried to get through to her, his hands resting comfortingly on her shoulder, "look at me, Molly." The weight on her left shoulder was taken away and she felt his hand under her chin, lifting it so that she had to look him in the face. She locked eyes with him, her vision slightly blurred by the tears. Very sincerely, Sherlock spoke to her, his pupils dilated, the rim of the iris around them golden like the corona at a total solar eclipse, and the pathologist wondered distantly if it was pain, sentiment or even drugs that made them look like that.

"What you are doing here for me is essential. You are actually saving my life, not wasting or selling it. As long as nobody puts an end to this woman, she will continue hunting down our family and me, and more people will suffer. She will be my murderer if we don't manage to stop her. Do you hear that, Molly? You are saving my life! I need you."

 _I need you_. In her current state of shock, Molly hadn't understood everything Sherlock had said, but those three words had found their way into her mind - and heart.

She snivelled and lowered her gaze. "I need... a tissue," she croaked.

Sherlock snickered. "That's good." Handing her the wanted object, he again looked at her attentively. "Will you manage, Molly? It will be dangerous if you break down like that in the presence of Mrs Campbell."

Blowing her nose in an un-lady-like manner, Molly nodded. "I'm ok. Just nerves," she replied nasally from under the tissue.

"Yes, nerves. But you need to keep control over yourself. Will you manage?" Sherlock probed.

"Yes. Yes, I will. Don't worry."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Admittedly, you've just given me a strong incentive to actually worry. - Anyway, I trust you and rely on you. You'd better take a little nap so that you're fit for your appointment."

Frowning, Molly objected that Sherlock didn't know anything about the where and when, but with a secretive smile he informed her that he knew everything he needed and the pathologist didn't even wonder how. He must have been watching her, but Molly hadn't noticed him in the breakfast room. As he wouldn't tell her anyway, she had to be content with the fact that at least she wasn't all alone while pretending to be the rich Molly Hooper.

"Sherlock? - What am I going to tell Mycroft? You know, he has put some pressure on me and I have to report to him occasionally about you."

"Oh, don't worry. All this will be over in less than a day and then you may tell him whatever pleases you - or him, that is."

"Why, by the way, do you drug him to get the information instead of working with him? I really don't understand that bit. Why do you put yourself in danger if he could just go and arrest her?"

"It's not as easy as you think, Molly. First, there is no proof so far that said Mrs Campbell is in fact pulling the strings. She's clever - not as clever as I had thought, though, since she is very quick at offering you her special service. Second, she's not working alone. If Mycroft had firm proof, he would have taken her into custody already."

"But... that doesn't explain why you don't involve him. Why, Sherlock?"

The dark-haired man didn't respond.

"And will you be able to sleep again then?" Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock had taken a seat in one of the armchairs by the desk, scrolling through something on his phone while they were talking. Now he put his mobile down and turned around to face Molly.

"What do you mean?"

"Um,... I mean... the nightmares and all that. Your mind palace..."

The detective slightly bent his head, furrowing his brow. Molly was already preparing for a sharp rejection, but Sherlock lowered his eyes, watching his hands with sudden interest. After endless seconds he replied in his quiet dark baritone.

"Yes, Molly, I think I will be able to sleep again. I have been restoring my mind palace for weeks now. All the times I might have appeared a little absent, I have actually worked on that. This, however,..."

He paused, seemingly thinking over what he wanted to say - or if at all he wanted to say something. Molly was still standing, not daring to move even an inch.

Sherlock looked again at her and there was something in his eyes that she had rarely seen. The sleuth inhaled deeply and continued his sentence.

"This, however, has become a matter of the heart for me. This is revenge for the peace of mind. _My_ mind, Molly. That's why I don't involve my brother in the first place. Satisfied?"

The pathologist's jaw dropped and her eyes became wide when the words of the World's only Consulting Detective struck like bullets. She was unable to say anything. Sherlock being driven by vengeance, by base motives was so odd that she could hardly believe it. However, by what she had become aware of about his abduction and torture as a child, she could understand him.

"It's...ok," was all she could utter. Sherlock had still set his gaze on her and she felt as if she could see straight into his heart, feeling the agony and the hatred. So this was Sherlock, the human. Molly realized that she had to be one of very few people who knew anything about this side of his and she wouldn't let him down. Never.


	43. Hiring a Murderer

At half past three, after some sleep, a change of dress and a renewal of her ruined make-up, Molly entered the Palm Court of the Ritz, a sight so overwhelming that the pathologist had to concentrate on keeping her mouth shut. The hotel's winter garden was a 'dramatic room of fanciful design, flanked by high walls of gleaming mirrors, a ceiling seemingly woven together with intricate gilded trellis, romantic birdcage chandeliers adorned with ornate metal flowers, a striking stone fountain inhabited by large gilded statues and at the centre of the room a soaring, vibrant floral display' [A/N: quoted from The Ritz' website. No way, I could have described it better!].

The tables, many of which were already occupied, were laid with fine white and blue Bone China and silver cutlery. Elegantly dressed men and women were indulging themselves with sandwiches, gateau, and freshly baked scones, whose scent filled the air, making Molly's empty stomach growl.

A waiter came to seat her at a table in one corner of the room. The noise of the animated conversations provided very little privacy, so Molly wondered how they would talk about their 'business' without people around them noticing. She was extremely nervous and felt a strong desire to dry her hands on the fine cloth of her skirt over and over again, knowing that they would keep sweating anyway. She was scared, bloody scared! Never in her life would she have imagined that one day she would not just examine corpses, but would have tea with a murderer in order to hire them to kill her heart-throb. That was insane!

"Hello, Molly," Brigitte greeted her, interrupting her contemplations. Collecting herself quickly, the pathologist gave the elder woman a sweet smile.

"Hello, Brigitte," she replied, hoping that the tremor in her voice would be swallowed by the surrounding cacophony of talks.

Mrs Campbell sat down without waiting for the waiter to move her chair.

"So, have you thought about my offer?" she asked straightforwardly.

Squirming inwardly, Molly said "I don't know what exactly your offer _is_."

A waiter came and brought them their cream tea, but Molly had suddenly lost her appetite. The woman opposite the pathologist smiled a fake smile, reaching out for Molly's hand again, but instinctively, she drew it away from her, taking her cup of tea in a kind of displacement activity. The bergamot scent of the tea was unbearable to her, although she normally loved Earl Grey tea, particularly when it was well-brewed like this one. By all means, Molly wanted to avoid being touched by a murderer.

"Not here, dear," Mrs Campbell replied, attending to a scone that she literally crammed into her mouth without even putting any jam or cream on it. Molly's whole body was screaming disgust.

This was, however, exactly where Molly, or Sherlock, respectively, wanted to have her. Molly offered to go to her room. Sherlock would be hiding somewhere in the room, overhearing their talk. As soon as they had agreed on negotiating their 'contract' in her room, Molly was supposed to wipe her mouth with a napkin and to accidentally drop it afterwards, which was the signal for the detective to await them.

"Ok," Brigitte agreed. "Who wants tea when one can have champagne?" she remarked cheerfully upon standing up and turning towards the exit of the Palm Court.

Molly followed her, throwing a last regretful glance at the delicious cream tea that was only making her sick today.

"After you. I don't know which room you're in," Mrs Campbell said, still smiling. It seemed to Molly as if something hard and eerie had crept into the woman's facial expression and fear spread in her guts, when all of a sudden she felt herself tightly embraced by Brigitte's right arm, her left arm pressing something hard to her side.

Molly stood still. Even if she had wanted to move, she simply couldn't. That woman was apparently pressing a gun at her side and it wasn't at all clear to the pathologist where she had got it from so quickly without her noticing. She wasn't prepared for this.

"If you don't want to die, which I think you really don't, walk with me," the woman hissed.

"I... I...," Molly stuttered, unable to even catch a clear thought. Where was Sherlock?! A cold shiver ran down her spine when she remembered wiping her mouth with the napkin just a few minutes ago. Sherlock was waiting for them in the hotel room. He wouldn't even notice where she went.

"Walk and smile!" ordered Mrs Campbell, pushing her into the direction of the main exit.

Since the hotel was located at one of London's busiest roads, Molly was hoping for a moment to escape the woman, but had to realise that the black-windowed limousine waiting outside would be the car taking her to her death. Strangely enough, she didn't feel any nausea or tears welling anymore; she was merely numb.

"Why... the gun?" Molly wanted to know, mustering all her remaining courage.

They had taken a seat in the back of the car, Molly now openly facing the deadly weapon.

"There was the creepy smile again. "Because, Molly Hooper, I know exactly who you are - and you, my dear will be the bait now. Of course, you and Sherlock Holmes will die anyway, but it will be a great pleasure for me to see you both suffer for a while - just like my father had to suffer. And this time, the Tabun dosage will be enough to kill you two. Slowly, but effectively and painfully," she spat.

"How...?"

"How do I know? Haha, Molly, you're really slow - or Sherlock Holmes keeps you uninformed for some reason. I was the one arranging the Tabun delivery to your friend's house. Of course I had to know who he was working with, so consequently I knew you. In fact, it took me a while to recognise you with your smart turn-out and stuff, but you have no idea how happy I was when I realised that you wanted to trap me. That meant Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be far away. Lucky me!"

Molly felt ice cold. How could Sherlock make such a mistake?! He could solve a murder in just a few minutes, outlining every single possibility at the speed of light without one single minor detail escaping his attention. And yet, when it came to himself, he missed such a crucial thing! and still, Molly had made a vow to herself to never let Sherlock down, and she would stick to it now. She would try to save him, if necessary by sacrificing herself.

"Why do you think you have us both?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

"That's as easy as pie. You are my security now; consider yourself abducted - and dead." Mrs Campbell winked at Molly, who really couldn't see anything funny in it, and she just stared back.

"You matter to Sherlock Holmes, he's rich - look at your clothes! - he's going to pay a pretty sum for you, he's going to come for the exchange, you're going to be covered in Tabun, you're both going to die because this time nobody will be able to rescue you. Full stop."

"I don't count." Molly said quietly. "I don't really matter to anybody. It's a waste of time, your plan."

"Haha, nice try. Tell me this then: Why are you doing all this for him, eh? If you don't count."

"He's ... taking advantage of me and I let him. That's mainly it." Something warm was running down Molly's cheeks and she realised that she was silently crying. Not only was she crying because she was scared out of her wits, but also because she wasn't entirely sure about the truth of her words, or rather if they were even a lie. He had said that he needed her, but was that the same like saying that she mattered to him?

"Stop that!" the woman shouted, pointing at Molly's face. The car was gliding through the streets, but the pathologist had lost all sense of orientation. After a long while, they stopped in front of a run-down brick building. There were some letters visible on the front of the old house, which were hardly readable, but Molly could identify one word that told her that the woman definitely hadn't been joking: Chemicals. How simple the idea of using an abandoned chemicals factory to poison them with chemical weapons!

The terrified young woman was recklessly pushed out of the car and dragged into the cold interior of the factory, dust and damp welcoming her. At gunpoint, she walked up a rusty metal staircase to the first floor and entered a large empty room, which could have been a laboratory once, going by the formerly white tile floor and walls. Everything was covered by a thick brownish coat of dirt, leaving smeary streaks and churning up clouds of particles where the shoes hit the floor, and Molly had to be careful not to slip. In the corner of the room there were two dirty old but stable chairs, equipped with sturdy strips that seemed to be waiting to hold a captive firmly. Molly was shoved into the direction of the chairs. If only she had a mind palace like Sherlock and could think of something to escape from this woman. If she didn't do anything but let herself be tied to the chair, she would definitely die - and so would Sherlock. If only she had a mobile, a tracer or anything like that, but she had nothing, nothing at all.

There was just one thing she could try; if she died in an attempted escape or if she died later, that didn't matter anyway. Molly mustered all her courage, shot around and kicked Mrs Campbell on her thigh. She had wanted to kick higher to make her drop the gun, but the floor was too slippery and the high heels didn't leave her a good radius of action, so everything she managed was a rather weak kick.

The woman howled in pain, the heel with a pointy end of the size of a penny hitting her muscle hurtfully, but all that Molly actually reached was that she became furious. In one sudden movement, she drew back her arm for a blow to the pathologist's head with the barrel of the gun and Molly saw little dancing lights at the corner of her visual field before hitting the disgusting floor hard with her knees and hands, ending up on all fours. She instantly felt a slight burning sensation where the substance on the floor came into contact with the skin of her hands.

Molly realised that she was on the verge of becoming unconscious and felt herself half-lifted from the floor and dragged through the room. In the back of her mind she knew that this was it now. She had failed.


	44. Revenge

The day after Molly had texted John that Sherlock was ok, Mycroft paid John a visit again, asking - or rather forcing him in his usual subtle way - to come with him to "retrieve" Sherlock. John had so far successfully resisted the impulse to simply ignore Sherlock's order to only contact Mycroft after three days of his absence and had eventually even complied with it. Moreover, he had even relaxed a tad about his flatmate's well-being, as he was assuming that Molly was taking care of him and would text him if anything was wrong. The older Holmes brother's watchdog qualities, however, - likely caused by true worry, John had to admit, - couldn't be sneezed at.

"How do you know he's gone missing?" John wanted to ask, but thought better of it. By now, he should have come to terms with the fact that none of their steps inside or outside 221B went unnoticed. What was rather strange, though, was Mycroft asking for his help, knowing that he was incapacitated. The astonished doctor raised his eyebrows, throwing a meaningful glance at his still plastered leg. The personified British Government, however, merely stated that legwork agreeably wasn't both their cup of tea, not at the moment at least, but would be inevitable to a certain extent. He appealed to his soldier honour and discipline and ordered him to bring his gun. John, taken aback by the fact that so far he had been so stupid as to believe that Mycroft didn't know about him keeping an illegal weapon at Baker Street, just frowned and looked at Sherlock's brother as if he didn't understand what he was talking about. He had been careful not to wave about with his firearm, but obviously there were clear signs that there was at least one available in the flat. The Michigan zinc coloured smiley face full of bullet holes on the wall, grinned down at him, proving his naivety.

"Oh, John! Don't pretend to be more obtuse that you naturally are!" Mycroft said patronizingly, "You're not really considering me stupid enough to not know about your army gun, are you? - Haha! That's whimsical."

John, angry about his own thickness and about being ridiculed, straightened his back and raised his chin.

"Of course I'm not. You have your eyes and ears everywhere, so how could you _not_ know it? I'm just surprised by the fact that you know and tolerate it, and even more so that you ask me to use it for your purposes," he countered, trying to keep his face neutral.

"I can sleep a little better knowing that there is actually something more effective than mere words to offer resistance to my brother's opposite number," the aristocratic man stated conceitedly, however with the faintest of smiles on his lips.

The ex-army doctor, still not reconciled about Mycroft's blatancy, and simply angry about his method of forcing people into doing something, shot back, "And anyway, Mycroft, has nobody ever taught you that asking is a much nicer and easier way to achieve something rather than threating people into doing something?"

The previous signs of amusement instantly vanished from his face when he replied, "Only those doubting what they want to achieve, ask. If you know what you need, what you want to have, you order. Asking includes the risk of a rejection. I can't tolerate rejections, thus, I don't ask. And now get the gun you're pretending not to possess and let's get my stupid little brother out of the trouble he's got himself into!"

That caught John's attention. "Trouble?" he asked. So far he had only thought it was Mycroft's compulsion to control his brother's whereabouts and to secure he wouldn't forestall his own hunt for the person who had tried to kill his little brother, but now a pang of worry went through John.

"Of course trouble. Do you think I would come here just because I enjoy your company or Sherlock would follow me more easily when you called him?" Mycroft's disdainful manner of talking to him brought John on the verge of losing his temper. Grinding his teeth and shaking his head briefly, he glared at Sherlock's brother.

"Why don't you call your services, - MI5, MI6, whatever you command anyway - why don't you call them?" he spat, pouting and clenching his fists endeavouring to control his anger.

Mycroft, suddenly dropping his hostile and contemptuous behaviour, looked John straight into the eyes, granting him a brief glance behind the arrogant façade.

"Because it's a private matter."

"You want to keep your name out of it. Your family _was_ involved in the Tabun testing and that's not good for your reputation, is it?" John stated angrily, driven by his rage, albeit sensing that he wasn't completely right. He had seen something in the stiff man's eyes that told him that there was more behind it. Something personal.

Mycroft turned around, but then stood motionless, facing the door to the flat.

"As if _I_ was in danger, John," he remarked silently. Then, throwing him a glance over the shoulder, he added, "I know about Sherlock's motives - and that's a private matter. - I won't beg for your support, John, but I thought that as my brother's... _friend_... or whatever you consider yourself... you would want to help him in a situation when he really needs your help."

John cleared his throat. Without any doubt, he wanted to help his flatmate, but the way his brother acted and spoke to him drove him up the wall every single time.

"Coming," he merely replied, knowing that any further words were pointless and would result in yet more banter.

Before long, they were gliding through the streets of London in Mycroft's limousine. John tried to find out more, but all questions as to how Mycroft had managed to find his brother, how he knew that he was in trouble as certainly Sherlock wouldn't have contacted his brother, were answered with a curt "You know I have my ways".

John finally gave up asking. He was more likely to receive an answer from someone whose tongue had been torn out than obtaining information about Mycroft's mysterious modes and, admittedly, all that mattered now was finding Sherlock and extricating him from the apparently ticklish situation he had got himself into. According to his brother, he had managed to hunt down the woman who had tried to poison him - and John as well - with the nerve agent.

"I take it you already knew where to find the lady. Why didn't you do anything about her before Sherlock put himself into danger again - and poisoned you, by the way? - How's your head?" John added, smirking.

"Fine," Mycroft replied, prolonging the fricative so as to leave no doubt about the validity of the word, however, leaving the circumstances about the poisoning uncommented. "I had hoped Sherlock wouldn't find her so fast. He thinks she's the one pulling the strings, but, stupid as he is, unable to get past his emotional involvement, he's wrong. Someone else is behind all that, helping her - offering her his "service". He's the one I'm pursuing."

John, watching the houses passing by, suddenly turned to Mycroft, staring at him, the hair at the small of his neck standing on end. Offering criminal services. He knew what was coming and he feared it, he feared him - that maniac who took pleasure in playing sick games with Sherlock, going so far as to putting people, including John himself and even innocent children, into Semtex vests and letting Sherlock solve mad riddles to save their lives.

"Moriarty," he croaked, getting in ahead of Mycroft.

The man in the three-piece suit sitting next to him raised his eyebrows without saying anything.

All of Moriarty's twisted amusements seemed to have been aimed at killing Sherlock off, and this time it could actually result in a successful attempt, if they weren't quick enough. Sherlock in trouble, yes, that hadn't sounded all too dangerous, given that Mycroft seemed to be calmness itself. However, with Moriarty involved, that was perilous. All of a sudden a thought crossed John's mind and he sent a quick prayer to heaven.

"Is... Molly with him?" he wanted to know, hoping that her promise to help Sherlock hadn't put her into danger as well.

"Yes, she is. However, they were separated and it seems that Ms Hooper is held captive."

"No!" John moaned, piercing the bridge of his nose. Molly had agreed to help Sherlock instead of him, John, but he had believed that she would just do minor legwork, nothing that would place her in jeopardy. On the one hand, the ex-army man felt miserable, annoyed about his poor health condition and particularly about his bloody broken leg, however, on the other hand, he felt determination settle in his mind. Nothing and nobody had been lost so far and he would never allow that.

"Tell me your scheme!" he ordered, forcing his voice in the most military sounding tone that he could muster.

A trace of an appreciative raise of the eyebrow could be seen in Mycroft's face, and for the next couple of minutes, he filled John in with his plan without dropping any snide remarks anymore, and the ex-soldier repeatedly let his hand wander to the now body-warm piece of metal in his waistband, feeling some kind of solace in the knowledge that he undoubtedly was a crack shot. Assuming that they weren't too late, he would again use his skills to save his flatmate's and also Molly's lives, making up for his annoying inability to have stood by his side before due to his broken leg.

Arriving at an old brick building that was clearly identifiable as a chemical factory, John wondered whether it was the right place. No car or other person was to be seen, no traces of people anywhere - as far as the ex-army man could tell from the distance. He knew, though, that this impression could easily be merely specious. As quietly as his crutches allowed it and extremely carefully, they entered the factory building, trying to hide wherever possible. John was rather amazed by Mycroft's cat-like movements and his attentiveness that seemed to have their origin in some kind of military training as well. Never before had the fact crossed his mind that Mycroft could be anything else but a pen pusher. It made sense, however, as someone who had the whole British nation in his hands, more or less commanded the secret services, the armed forces, the navy and whatever England had to offer to defend its country, that he had gone through some kind of military career as well.

John suddenly stopped short, pierced by Mycroft's look. "Stop grinning! My life is not just desks! And don't tell Sherlock!" he hissed, barely audible for John. If the situation hadn't been that serious, the doctor would have burst out laughing, which his military training allowed him to suppress successfully right now.

Suddenly, they heard distant voices and they slowly moved into their direction, John having the gun cocked. The voices were becoming clearer and they could identify one as Sherlock's. Thank God, he was still alive! However, upon entering the next room, John was facing an unsurmountable obstacle on his way to rescuing his flatmate - a long, metal staircase. It was absolutely impossible for him to get it up without making the hell of a noise and without being utterly exhausted at its end.

He whispered to Mycroft, "Take the gun, I won't make it up there. Damn this bloody leg!"

Sherlock's brother pushed away John's hand that was offering him the weapon. "I have astigmatism. I don't want to shoot my brother or Ms Hooper. You have no choice."

Again, John felt a giggle in his throat but swallowed it. If astigmatism wasn't corrected through contact lenses or glasses, it wasn't good for shooting as the object would probably be a bit blurred, and he might even see double. On the one hand, it made sense not to risk a shot, on the other hand, it was their only means to defend themselves.

"I'll go upstairs and distract her a bit so that you have enough time to get up there. Don't dawdle!"

That hissed, Mycroft turned around and crept up the stairs. The voices from upstairs were becoming louder and John could even understand them now.

"...child's play!" That was Sherlock. "I searched your hotel room. I had thought you weren't such a moron, but you've made such a basic mistake, leaving a real estate brochure with the picture of this site, that I knew you were expecting me. This, being a chemical factory, is the perfect place to hide forbidden substances. Nobody would come looking. Everything is locked and guarded, so it was unlikely that homeless people would be loafing about here. Plus, as your first attempt at killing me was clearly a failure, but you are striving for the perfect revenge for your father and grandfather, you wouldn't just go and shoot me or choose any other simple way to kill me off. No, you would try again to poison me, to see me suffer and die slowly."

John noticed that what had begun as merely a drily stated deduction had ended with Sherlock's voice almost trembling and having become somewhat shrill.

"And you have run into my open arms, Mr Holmes. Welcome to your death!" a woman with a rather dark voice, which told of too much alcohol or smoking over the years, replied. There was a brief pause; then she went on.

"What a lucky incident it was that you were so successful and actually becoming famous. That made it so much easier for me to get hold of you. To take revenge - eventually!"

Sherlock's voice was dangerously low when he spat out his reply and John was wondering whether it was from suppressed anger or exhaustion, both equally likely. He only hoped that his flatmate wouldn't collapse as his physical state still wasn't good enough for running around and catching killers.

"Your father _has_ already taken revenge!"

"You escaped - heaven knows how. My father was an idiot. And still, you had no right to just kill him!"

"Agreed, your father _was_ an idiot, just as you are. For the record, he was the one who abducted _me_ , tortured _me_. It wasn't _me_ who killed him! None of this was my fault! I - was a CHILD!"

Sherlock's voice was unnaturally loud and John took the opportunity to make his first steps up the staircase, very slowly, very cautiously and very painfully, leaving his crutches behind. Mycroft was out of sight.

"But it was your family! You destroyed my family and I'll destroy yours! How unfortunate, your brother is so hard to get hold of!"

"Should make you think."

Sherlock seemed to speak between gritted teeth, but still loudly enough for John to understand. The voices were echoing from the stone and tile walls. Incredibly slowly he mounted stair after stair.

"Haha! I will get him, one day or the other. I have my whole life; - but you - and this woman here - you have nothing anymore. Nothing. No life. Enjoy your last minutes for the pain, that horrible pain, will soon get you and you will die in inexplicable agony."

"I won't."

The Consulting Detective's voice was a bit calmer and firmer now.

Again, there was a pause and John could imagine an expression of surprise on the woman's face in view of such a plain but recalcitrant reply.

"What makes you so sure you won't?"

"You chose the wrong place." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

Wrong place? John wondered. If the woman was about to poison Sherlock and Molly with Tabun, the place simply didn't matter.

"What?" the woman shrieked, laughing madly.

"Yes, wrong place. The idea of choosing a chemical factory wasn't all too bad, admittedly, but as if to prove your utter ignorance of chemistry in general and Tabun in particular, you chose a factory that produced bleaching powder. Everywhere there's bleaching powder. The floor is covered in it, it's in the air, everywhere!"

"Bleaching powder?!" she probed, still laughing, but a slight undertone of doubt was creeping into her voice.

"Bleaching powder, chlorinated lime. Rings a bell?" Sherlock had now fully regained his steady voice.

There was a pause, after which the Consulting Detective spoke again.

"Oh, that's as stupid as it can get! You want to poison me with Tabun - for your revenge - in a factory full of bleaching powder, the substance that instantly neutralizes your bloody nerve agent!" he spat. "It's useless, utterly useless! Hahaha!"

Sherlock's laughter sounded malicious, and to John's concern even a tad hysterical. He hadn't paid any attention to the "dust" on the floor so far, but now he only hoped that Sherlock was right. And still, if the woman wasn't an utter moron, she would most likely have any other kind of weapon. The danger had not yet been banned.

There was no spoken reaction from the woman.

"Ignorance is dangerous. And now it's you who's in danger, because this… is _my_ revenge!"

Sherlock's voice sent a shiver down John's spine as it was cold as ice and alarmingly determined. Revenge. This was all about Sherlock's reprisal and obviously Mycroft knew it! Sherlock on a campaign of revenge - the realization slowly sank into John's mind. The extent to which the memories of his captivity were really troubling the otherwise self-proclaimed unemotional Consulting Detective was a true shock to his flatmate. The question was, however, what his flatmate's means of retribution would be? He didn't have the gun and it was unlikely that he would have got one from someone else, so what could he use?

 _Oh! Of course!_ the doctor realised. The weapon that was absolutely suitable for his revenge and that he felt entirely familiar with would be a chemical one, too. John, fearing that in this state of agitation, Sherlock could react impetuously, taking the risk of poisoning himself in order to just carry out his counterblow, tried to ignore the searing pain in his leg and more or less pulled himself up the stairs. Just a few more steps to go.

"Haha! Your revenge," the woman mocked. You're not even armed! If I can't poison you then I'll just shoot you. As easy as that."

"No you won't." That was Mycroft's voice.

"Mycroft Holmes!" the woman jubilated. "Welcome! How lucky I am today. Both Holmes brothers here in front of me, and, as it seems, both entirely defenceless; how very fortunate!"

"I wouldn't rely on that, if I were you," Mycroft suggested and received a giggle as a response.

John wondered why the woman was still so calm after Mycroft had shown up. Either she was really insane, which was quite likely, or she didn't know about his position in the British Government, which was rather unlikely, going by the fact that if Moriarty was involved, she would have got sufficient information from him. Normally, Mycroft Holmes showing up anywhere where there was peril meant a whole army right at his tail. That in this case it was different, she couldn't know, unless…. Moriarty was of the same opinion as he himself: that Mycroft would try to keep his forces out due to a desire to keep his name clear and his position secure.

"What are _you_ doing here?!" Sherlock asked, the disapproval clearly audible in his voice.

"Just checking on your well-being, little brother."

"I'm perfectly fine, Mycroft. And anyway, keep out of my business!" he hissed.

Oh, well, John thought, this sounded pretty much like the start to all the banters they normally had, so this was very likely to develop into one if they weren't interrupted. Depending on the woman's reaction to it, she would most probably be distracted enough for him to forget a bit about the caution and to climb the rest of the stairs more quickly. He could see the door to the room everything took place in standing ajar. The white light that shone through the chink looked like an invitation to hell.

"I don't see how you want to get out of here without my help. You're standing here at gunpoint, in case you haven't noticed."

"Did John call you? Argh! He should really reconsider his attitude towards loyalty these days!" Sherlock replied rather angrily and John frowned about the implied accusation.

"There's absolutely ... nothing wrong with his loyalty ... loyalty towards you, quite on the contrary. He's still sitting ... at home, resting his leg, watching crap ... telly and waiting for you to show up!"

John had nearly reached the door. He felt uncomfortable about having become the subject of the brotherly skirmish. Drawing the woman's attention to him wasn't all too clever. He only hoped that she believed in Mycroft's tale about him. The latter, however, seemed to be distracted by something as it was entirely unusual for him to make pauses in the middle of a sentence and his voice sounded slightly strange.

"Oh, boys!" the woman called them. "As nice as it is to see you both here, united, I have business to attend to. So shut up! - Mr Holmes, Sherlock, I'm curious about your revenge. Tell me more about it!"

There was no talking in the room at the moment and John wondered about what was going on in there. A second before he reached the door, he heard a moan followed by a thud. The voice had been male, but he couldn't say whether it had been Sherlock's or Mycroft's - or somebody else's. There hadn't been a shot or any other suspicious noise. What the hell was going on? The laughter, however, that followed the short period of silence, was venomous - and female.


	45. Vatican Cameos!

The gun that was pointed at Sherlock, and John aiming with his own pistol from a hidden place at the woman holding it, reminded the ex-army man distantly of their very first case when the mad cabbie had nearly brought his flatmate so far as to take the potentially lethal pill just to prove his cleverness. Back then, the obstacle had been to calculate the flight of the bullet through two closed windows. This time the problem, though, was that from this angle it was more likely that a shot from his gun would rather hit Sherlock than the woman, as he was blocking the way. One tiny little step of Sherlock's to the side and he would be in a safe position to fire - and this time he wouldn't wait until the last second before she fired first, he simply didn't want to skate on thin ice even though it would be rather cold-blooded. John didn't care, damn his moral principles and damn the fact that he was about to shoot a woman. She had tried to kill them both twice and John simply didn't feel like granting her a third attempt.

The whole situation that was unfolding before John's eyes was a mess. Molly was sitting on a chair, tied to it, and it seemed as if only the bonds were keeping her in a more or less upright position. Her head was sunk to her chest, arms hanging limp at her sides, and there was blood slowly dripping from a wound at her temple. She was apparently unconscious.

Sherlock's complexion was standing out against the dark colour of his coat and the brownish-greyish colour of the room lit by cold neon light, which added to the menacing atmosphere.

The sound of a body hitting the floor had, to John's great dismay, obviously been Mycroft, who was now down on the ground in a short distance to his brother, apparently struggling to breathe. John couldn't make out what was wrong with him. Was he probably merely acting as a means of diverting the woman's attention from his brother?

John's target was standing between Sherlock and Molly, aiming at the younger Holmes. She was still laughing, throwing her head back. "Oh, this is funny, don't you think, Sherlock? Some problems seem to solve themselves! Weak heart, have we, Mycroft?" she asked, mockingly serious.

Sherlock was still standing motionless, facing the woman. Through the gap of the door, John tried to catch a glimpse of Mycroft's face. Cursing inwardly, he realised that she seemed to be right. Mycroft's skin appeared to be greyish and covered in sweat, his face contorted in agony. He wasn't acting; he was having a heart attack!

Damn! John thought, realizing that in fact there had been signs of an imminent heart attack lately, but everyone - most likely Mycroft himself as well - had blamed his condition on the whole stressful situation during the past weeks and months with his brother's life constantly in danger. Now that he thought about it, he had undeniably noticed the older Holmes rubbing his arm and chest surreptitiously during their journey to the factory, but John had simply been too absorbed in his own thoughts to let his perception get through to his medial brain. Grey complexion, cold sweat, pain in the arm and chest - John scolded himself for having been so bloody ignorant!

Sherlock still didn't move. He was staring at the woman, or so it seemed, as he was standing slightly sideways so that John could only see a part of his face. He was sure, though, that his flatmate didn't pay any attention to his brother's agony. He seemed to be rather paralysed.

Time was becoming too precious as definitely two, if not three people needed an ambulance. Therefore, and against his better judgment, John decided on dropping his guard.

"Vatican cameos!" he shouted, flinging open the door and using the moment of surprise to fire. John was extremely relieved that the military code used by the Britons in World War I, signalling to get down and protect yourself, which he had immediately recognized back then when the CIA agents had intruded Irene Adler's house, was working just as well with Sherlock, who reacted instinctively, ducking down. The bang of the gunshot was deafening, the sound reverberating from the tile walls. The ex-soldier felt the force of the recoil spreading in his shoulder muscles. He pulled the trigger a second time and another bang filled the air. The woman sank to her knees, then fell sideward and remained still.

The first shot had hit the woman's right hand holding the gun, most likely causing permanent damage to it, and the second shot had been aimed at her knee to fully incapacitate her. John hadn't wanted to kill her, but wanted to secure she wouldn't be able do any harm anymore.

After the echo of the shots had subsided, John limped over to the woman, ignoring his desire for checking on both the Holmes brothers and Molly and following his however illogical Hippocratic obligation to look after the woman first in order to make sure she wouldn't die from his hands - damn the struggle between soldier and doctor! He knew that it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. To his satisfaction he found that he had once again proven his ability as a marksman. The woman was unconscious from the shock, which itself was dangerous, but she was likely to survive if she received medical attention soon. It wasn't his task to take revenge, although he had plenty of reasons for killing her, but he was sure that she would receive her sentence, of whatever kind it would be.

John turned around, looking at Sherlock, who was still standing there, petrified, gloomily staring at the bleeding woman in front of him.

"Sherlock!" John called his friend. "Sherlock! Look at me!"

Woken from his paralysis, the Consulting Detective did as he was said. His movements, though, seemed to be rather mechanic and even clumsy. "Sherlock, check on Molly! Get her off that chair!"

John limped over to Mycroft, whose hands were clenching the cloth of his jacket.

"Mycroft, you need to breathe calmly. Inhale...exhale…. inhale… "

The doctor saw panic in the older Holmes' eyes. He quickly opened the buttons of Mycroft's shirt to ease his breathing. Fidgeting with the buttons and ignoring the fierce protest of his leg that really hadn't healed enough to stand the burden of a combat, as this was nothing else, John briefly but thoroughly scrutinized his friend.

"Sherlock, you ok?"

Although his flatmate seemed to be outwardly rather unharmed, he wasn't sure of his true physical and psychical state.

"Fine," was his curt reply, so he wasn't ok at all, John concluded. As long, however, as he didn't collapse as well, he had to be content with it now.

Sherlock had untied Molly and, after taking off his coat and spreading it on the dirty floor, laid her down on it cautiously. She was still out cold.

"Get here, I need your help. Mycroft, that is. You need to sit down behind him and support him. We have to bring him into a sitting position. I can't sit down that way and I need to look after Molly."

"John, he's just acting," Sherlock said, his voice strangely monotonous.

"What?!" John exclaimed in disbelief, blinking his eyes from bewilderment. Even Sherlock had to see that his brother wasn't acting. Only then did John notice that he was swaying slightly and his gaze was strangely absent. The Consulting Detective was going into shock, John realized, mild panic rising in him. A room full of injured people and the only doctor injured himself - that was inexplicably not good.

"Sherlock, sit down here!" John bellowed and the power of his voice of command seemed to lead the younger man to him, obeying his order spinelessly. Very quickly and, surprisingly, without any resistance from his friend, he examined Sherlock and was relieved that the shock that was apparently settling in him, didn't seem to be too deep. Fainting wasn't unlikely, but he would be able to cope with it if both Holmes brothers were sitting in the correct position.

With firm orders that allowed no protest, John arranged the brothers back to back, providing something to lean at for Mycroft and preventing Sherlock from falling if he passed out. He needed to lie down as well, but it simply wasn't possible now.

The ex-army doctor stumbled over to Molly. The wound at her temple was lacerated, nothing deep, but her continuing unconsciousness was what worried John the most.

"Molly? Molly!" he called her repeatedly, patting her cheek, and finally, her eyelids fluttered open. John could instantly see the comparatively slow reaction of her pupils in the bright light, so she definitely had a concussion, if nothing more severe. The doctor gave her a wide smile.

"Hi, Molly," he said softly, her hand still resting on her cheek, giving her some warmth that inwardly he wasn't feeling because he didn't know what to do about the further medical treatment.

The pathologist moaned and grunted quietly, pressing her hand against her head.

"John," she murmured, "I've got such a headache!"

"Yes, Molls, I absolutely understand. Can you tell me what day it is today?" he asked, hoping that she would remember.

"Ooh," she groaned, "where's Sherlock? Is he safe? Where's Brigitte? And where the hell am I? And what are you doing here?"

In view of so many questions regarding the short time before the blow to her head, John was rather relieved. If she knew the details so well, she should be quite ok. They had to be careful, though. Probing again for the date and some other personal detail, John made sure that there was no imminent danger for the pathologist.

"Molly, you need to stay put. It's likely you are concussed. I have to look after Sherlock and Mycroft. Don't worry about - Brigitte, you said? Don't worry about her, ok?"

The young woman blinked her eyes in response. Behind his back, John heard some shoving noises. Upon turning around he saw Sherlock kneeling by the woman's side. He was glaring at her, however, he didn't touch her or anything. The doctor watched him carefully, preparing for an intervention, but all Sherlock suddenly did was spit at her scornfully before getting back on his feet and shuffling back to his brother without taking his position behind the older man's back again. He just stood there, observing every strenuous breath of his next of kin.

"Sherlock! I need your help!" John tried to wake his flatmate from his evident mental absence.

"What for?" he replied slowly.

John got to his feet, inhaling sharply through gritted teeth from the pain that shot through his leg, and limped over to his friend. He knew that, if a severe acute stress disorder manifested in Sherlock, he wouldn't reach him anyway, but he had to try, even though he was well aware of the risk he was taking. He slapped his friend's face hard - once, twice, when all of a sudden he achieved the wanted reaction and just managed to protect his face from the counterblow.

He grabbed Sherlock's arms and held them to his side firmly, trying to lock eyes with him at the same time.

"Sherlock," he hissed, exhausted, "are you with me? I need your help!"

"I'm with you." was the relieving answer, and John saw in his friend's eyes, that he spoke the truth. For the time being, he could rely on the Consulting Detective. Later, however, he would indeed very likely be in need of the despised orange shock blanket.

"Ok, good. - Listen! Mycroft's heart attack is real! He's notacting! He needs help urgently! Got that?"

"Real?" Sherlock asked, disbelievingly, and the look on his face renewed John's assumption of an acute state of shock.

"I need to call emergency, but this here is very likely to raise some suspicions among the paramedics and will cause us the hell of trouble! Mycroft has left his army in the stall and I think he wouldn't be all too pleased if we just called 999. So, who am I supposed to call for help?" he yelled, desperate, knowing that the older Holmes was no longer able to help since he couldn't speak and could easily lose consciousness and he would have to start cardiac pressure massage.

As if he had taken John's thought as a signal, Mycroft's hand, which had been holding the cloth of his shirt, went limp and fell to the side.

"Shit! Sherlock! I don't give a damn about trouble, call 999! NOW!"

The sleuth took his mobile from his trouser pocket and hit a single button before putting it away again. Assuming that Sherlock didn't have the emergency call saved on a one-touch dialling button, John wondered whether his friend was still out of his mind, acting nonsensically.

"What was that?" the doctor enquired, bringing himself in the proper position to resuscitate the older Holmes.

"Help will be here in a minute."

Taking the words metaphorically, he barked, "Your brother doesn't have a minute!"

With all the power he could muster, John started the cardiac pressure massage, supporting Mycroft's body in pumping the blood through his vessels.

"Let me!" he heard Sherlock say and felt himself and his hands pushed aside. In just the right pace, the younger Holmes conducted the massage, and John wiped his face from exhaustion, letting his gaze wander around the room that looked like a battlefield.

To his greatest surprise, he heard hurried steps clacking on the staircase and shortly after, an army of fully equipped paramedics rushed into the room, attending to each of the persons in the room. Utterly exhausted and just as relieved, he threw a quick glance at Sherlock, who met his gaze with a tiny smile on his lips, which, newly concentrating on his brother, instantly disappeared again.

Paramedics took over the cardiac pressure massage against rather weak resistance from Sherlock, another one examined Mycroft, and a third attached an IV to his hand. John shook off a fourth paramedic's helping hand that was trying to push him to sit down on a blanket on the floor.

"I'm alright. Leave me alone," he refused the help, watching the medical team do their work.

"Who are they?" he asked Sherlock.

"Paramedics."

Looking at the green, neon yellow uniforms that all paramedics wore, he replied, "They do look it a bit like it, yeah, and they also behave like it, Sherlock, I can see that! The question is, where do they come from and why do you have the emergency number on one-touch-dialling?"

"I don't. I sent a prepared message. And they come from different hospitals."

John's raised eyebrows and the annoyed expression about his mouth signalled Sherlock that he wasn't all satisfied with the answer.

"They all owe me a favour and won't tell anybody anything."

"They owe you a favour?" The doctor could hardly withhold a laugh. "Why on earth should a bunch of paramedics owe you a favour and not talk about it? Must be a huge favour!"

"Medical malpractice."

John's jaw dropped. "What?! Medical malpractice?! Let me guess: the oh-so clever sleuth caught each of them at a case of malpractice and, instead of reporting them to the authorities, blackmailed them?!"

"Close. I secured their support and discretion."

John laughed humourlessly. "Support, yeah. Just another word for blackmail. I keep repeating myself, I know, but you're a creep, a mean creep - and for once I'm absolutely grateful for it! Although... I hope medical malpractice isn't a habit of theirs."

Sherlock contorted his face in something between anger and amusement; the prevailing expression, however, was distress, John realised. The detective remained squatted at his brother's side and suddenly took the unconscious man's hand in his. It was a slightly awkward gesture of support and affection, but it seemed as if it was dawning on the detective that Mycroft's life was in imminent danger. As far as John knew, it had always been the other way round, that is Mycroft worrying about Sherlock numerous times, and the younger brother had so far always been sure of the convenience that whenever he needed him, without admitting it, naturally, he would have come running with an army, a medical team, a place to hide, or whatever he was lacking, up his sleeve.

"I've got a pulse and he's breathing," one of the paramedics said and the other one stopped the cardiac pressure massage. They quickly attached the electrodes of a mobile heart monitor to his chest and the fast beeps of his now audible heartbeats filled the room.

John made a step towards Sherlock and laid his hand on his shoulder. He briefly squeezed it reassuringly. "He'll be ok."

The younger man nodded slowly, but didn't say anything. Knowing that he was of no real use there, neither to help Mycroft nor Sherlock, John staggered to Molly, passing the woman and the paramedics looking after her. He felt no desire at all to dwell on her.

Upon approaching the pathologist, he caught her glance. She was actually smiling at him between screwing up her face from the pain in her head and the burning sensation that was caused by the disinfectant the medical workers were cleaning her temple wound with.

All of a sudden, John was exhausted, deflated even, and his mind was whirling. The current relief about having ended the imminent threat of Sherlock and Molly being shot by the mad woman gave way to utter weariness. He swayed. He didn't see the expression of fear on his friend's face and he didn't see the despairing look in his eyes when he couldn't stand upright any longer and his knees gave in under him. He didn't perceive Sherlock's call of his name and didn't feel the paramedic cushion his fall. He had passed out.


	46. By the Fire

The flames in the fireplace were gnawing on the gaily crackling logs of dry birch, the warmth of the fire expelling the cold of the late spring evening, causing a cosiness and homeliness that helped to chase away even the cold of the latest experiences and impressions of Sherlock and John.

The ex-soldier was resting his injured leg on a stool by his favourite armchair and the Consulting Detective was sitting opposite him, now dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Both were holding a cup of hot tea in their hands, which, among a plate of still warm chocolate cookies, had been provided by the overjoyed Mrs Hudson. After a tirade of curses over their rashness and all the sorrow they were causing her, she had embraced them warmly on their return home and shooed them to sit down and relax, and, reminding them of her position as a landlady and not their housekeeper, she had rushed downstairs, only to come back after a while with a flowered pot of tea, the matching wide-rimmed cups and the sweet delicacies.

The two men looked at each other briefly, before taking another sip of their hot beverages.

"There's something you need to explain to me, Sherlock." John tried, hoping that his friend would be willing to talk.

Sherlock eyed John for a moment, then put his cup down on the saucer on his lap.

"I know exactly what you want to know," he replied and John pursed his lips briefly before raising his eyebrows invitingly.

"Arsine," he merely stated and the doctor nearly spat out his tea, choking on it on the attempt at trying not to spray everything within a fair distance with a mouthful of liquid. There was a long list of swearwords reeling off in front of his inner eye, but he refrained from speaking any of them out loud. He knew Arsine as a chemical weapon. It was quite easy to produce, very poisonous and absolutely idiotic to make use of in a surrounding that was covered with substances containing chlorine unless you were on a kamikaze mission as it became highly explosive in contact with the substance. Given that he had actually had Arsine at hand and would have used it, he would very likely have killed not only Mrs Campbell, but also Molly and himself, plus John and Mycroft, however without knowing.

Collecting himself, John scrutinized Sherlock for a moment before stating matter-of-factly, "So, you really wanted to kill her."

"I wanted revenge. I didn't want to kill her. Killing is a means of the helpless man. It would have just been the last resort, my life insurance, so to say."

"What kind of life insurance is it that kills the insured?! And Molly!"

"It was my luck - and her luck that the factory she had chosen was covered in bleaching powder. I... um..." he hesitated.

"You made a mistake, right?"

Silence. Sherlock lowered his eyes and stared into his cup.

"It wasn't part of your scheme that Molly would be kidnapped. Am I right?"

The Consulting Detective gritted his teeth. "It wasn't intended that she would be hurt. She was just to lure the... woman into her room and negotiate my murder. I would have recorded her confession and sent her to her fate: Mycroft."

"Does that sound any better?" John wondered, unaware that he had spoken aloud.

"Hm?" Sherlock probed.

"Nothing. - And then you had missed something..."

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know how it could happen; too much distraction, I guess, but I had assumed she had had her stooges to do the legwork and the dirty work. I hadn't thought she would recognize Molly. Nobody recognizes Molly."

"Sherlock!" John scolded. "She has just helped you catch the woman who had been hunting you for a while in order to kill you. She's just spent a couple of days in bed to recover from the concussion she took just to save you! You're ungrateful!"

"I'm not!" Sherlock burst out angrily. "I'm just stating a plain, objective fact. No personal assessment, just the truth."

"And still, it's exactly the thing that would terribly hurt her - and she would be right!"

"I won't tell her." the Consulting Detective suggested innocently.

"Pfff!" John shook his head. Sherlock would never understand such things. He didn't mean it in a hurtful way. He was just like a little child innocently telling you the cruellest facts straight into your face.

"That could have easily resulted in a fatal outcome!"

"It was a stalemate. If she had carried out her threat of using Tabun, it would have become ineffective instantly, so it was useless. The Arsine would have blown up the whole building, so it was useless as well. I wasn't on a kamikaze spree, really!"

"But she had a gun..."

"...that she didn't know how to use. The magazine wasn't locked. Everything had been perfectly ok until you showed up."

"Pah! Are you blaming us now for rushing to your help?!" John was furious. He put down his cup on the saucer and more or less slammed both on the side table. "How could I have foreseen that your brother was about to suffer a heart attack?!"

"He didn't have one, I told you so!"

"Yes, panic attack then. You said he was _acting_! You know, distinguishing a heart attack from a panic attack is a diagnosis of elimination and it's _impossible_ do that from a distance, let alone through an half open door with a weapon at the ready to save your friend from being shot! Damn it, Sherlock!"

John exhaled deeply, closing his eyes and trying to calm down. He heard Sherlock rustle and, unanticipated, felt the sleuth's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not blaming you for anything. - Thank you, John."

The flatmates looked at each other, and John was nonplussed about the sincerity in his friend's eyes. Still under the impression of their battle of words, he couldn't resist snapping back, though.

"For spoiling your scheme?" he asked?

"I was really afraid he would die," Sherlock admitted quietly, his voice calm and dark and his hand still resting on John's shoulder.

"We really couldn't know it was just a panic attack. The symptoms are very similar to a real heart attack. "

"Such a drama queen, he is," Sherlock stated mockingly. He took away his hand and went into the kitchen, leaving the doctor giggling.

"I know another one. - Seriously, Sherlock, you should really thank him. He wouldn't have panicked if he hadn't been under such stress."

"He's constantly under stress."

"You're doing pretty well in keeping him busy."

"I didn't ask him to be my nanny," the Consulting Detective shouted from the adjoining room.

The younger man returned from the kitchen, holding out a glass of whisky to the doctor, who took it gratefully. He dropped back into his armchair, keeping his own glass of the golden liquid level.

"You're drinking?" John wanted to know, remembering the last time his friend had been emotionally strained and had drunk too much alcohol, suffering from a terrible hangover the next day.

Sherlock didn't react but raised his glass to his flatmate and took a sip.

"I thought _you_ would die," the younger man confessed, without looking up from his glass.

"I... was just a little... exhausted. Bit too much, all that. I'm not that easy to kill off, Sherlock. Don't worry."

Sherlock looked up from his drink, eyeing his flatmate intently.

"Good," he stated, giving him a brief but genuine smile.

"You owe Molly something. She has to stay in bed for another couple of days to recover from the concussion," John reminded his friend.

"She's ok."

"Ok?"

"Emotionally. I talked to her."

"Did you? When?"

"On the way to the hospital. You were out cold anyway, Mycroft wasn't responsive either, and she was more than happy to have a little chat," Sherlock reported drily.

"You're incredible, do you know that, Sherlock? What are you planning to make up for all the trouble - and the pain - you've caused her?"

"Hmmm, I guess, I should go shopping with her once more, buy her a nice dress and stuff. That's killing two birds with one stone. She doesn't have to run around in those quite ... tasteless clothes and she will have some fun."

John blinked his eyes, amused by Sherlock's explanations. "How would _you_ know?" he laughed.

"You'd be surprised," the sleuth mumbled enigmatically into his glass, taking another sip.

John made a mental note that he would have to ask Molly about it. There was apparently something he had missed. For a while, they just sat at the fire, each man absorbed in thought, sipping at their drinks.

"She'll vanish," Sherlock interrupted the silence.

"I know. Mycroft had sworn that if one of their family ever set foot on the British Isles again, they would disappear. Will he kill her?" John kept staring at the dancing red and orange flames with the blue and white tips.

"Yes."

John looked up and scrutinized his flatmate, who was apparently also enchanted by the fire. He turned his head and they locked eyes. Sherlock granted his friend insight into his soul for a split-second, his eyes speaking volumes of pain and hatred, before losing their fire and returning to the familiar indifferent gaze that protected the sleuth.

John replied with a nod of assent. "Hm."

The idea of Mycroft Holmes as a cold-blooded killer seemed absurd to John, and yet he knew that the woman would never be seen again. Never get in a Holmes' way. Despite the warmth of the fire, John shuddered.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Moriarty had his hands in all this, did you know?"

"I know. And he will not give up until he has destroyed me. This wasn't it, John. This was still playing. I could have died, yes, but I'm sure he had calculated very well the likeliness that I would survive. There's more to come."

John emptied his glass in one big gulp, the strong alcohol leaving a burning sensation in his throat.

"... and there's no way to prepare for it." John added, unable to shake off the icy cold that was crawling all over his body.

"No." Sherlock terminated their talk and both resumed staring into the fire.


	47. Epilogue

He was running through the halls of the house, which seemed to expand with every step he made. He realised that it wasn't the house that grew but he who shrank. He was ten again. He needed to find the stairs to the cellar. Fast, fast! His abductor was after him; that man. He wanted to incarcerate him again. He felt him coming closer. He ran. The staircase had moved. It had been at a different place in the old palace. This one, however, was much bigger and the cellar was so far away. He kept running.

The footfalls behind him became louder. He could smell the man, could feel his hot breath on his cold and sore skin. In front of him, he saw the way to the lowest storey of the building. It unfolded in front of him, spiralling down into deep darkness. He was scared, but there was no escape. With the courage born of desperation, he ran down the steps, tripping, sliding. His heart was beating wildly. Strangely, the light went with him, the darkness was only in front of and behind him. He saw the last steps and jumped, stumbling upon landing, but his instinct told him to get back on his feet and resume running. Fast! The light had disappeared and he was panting; the terror was clenching his heart and making it impossible to breathe. Curiously enough, he knew his way and eventually reached the door. The drumming of the footfalls behind him was becoming unbearable. The knob turned easily and he flung the door open. There was no handle on the inside of the door. He held the door open - and waited for the horror to come.

It was a cold, cold breath of agony, disgust, embarrassment, hatred and inexplicable fear that rushed past him through the open door. He was barely able to keep it open and a scream wanted to escape his lips. He was trembling. The very second he felt he wouldn't be able to bear it any longer, he slammed the door shut, locked it finally, and the freeing scream came from deep down his heart and ricocheted from the walls of his mind palace.

Sherlock woke with a start, his skin wet with sweat. He tried to recall his dream that he knew he had had, as the echo of it was still tingling in every fibre of his body, but it was simply impossible. He knew it had to do with his abduction, but the details were gone. The feelings of helplessness and terror that had hunted him through endless nights lately had vanished. _Eventually_. The word reverberated in his mind. He let out a deep sigh, pulled his blanket up to his chin and instantly fell asleep again peacefully.

* * *

**THE END**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Disclaimer: The main characters and settings of this story belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No money is made from this.


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